


Therapy for the Human Encyclopedia

by kingburu



Category: Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Bart becomes a badass, Coming of Age, F/M, First Kiss, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-16
Updated: 2013-04-19
Packaged: 2017-11-29 10:46:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 68,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/686058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingburu/pseuds/kingburu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two years. Two years since the Reach came and left; since Bart finished his goal. All that's left for him is to live a life in a time that isn't his own. But when you finish the track, sometimes there's nothing left. Sometimes you have to find a new track--a harder one. So after Deathstroke shoots him in the knee, Bart moves in the only direction he can: forward.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shot

The room extended from one end to another like the length of a basketball court. Gray columns kept the building stable. Large windows defined the walls, allowing any viewer to see Happy Harbor from a distance. Twelve floors; fitted with an engine room, an infirmary, crime lab, training room and—hey, even a home theatre room. Apparently people were _for_ the idea when Bart wrote it on the ballot.

 

He circled the future comm.-center with a paint roller in hand, dabbing the colors over the walls with delight. A _Tower_ , was what Cassie called it. It was nowhere near the mass of the Watchtower up in the sky (not that he’d ever seen it), but according to Nightwing, it would be perfect for them.

 

More than perfect, Bart decided in his head. Crash. Amazing! Spectacular. _Beautiful._

 

Padding the room in a seventh round, Bart only stopped when he saw the mannequin-like figures of his friends. He halted, balancing on one leg and gazing up to Robin. A smile graced his lips. “Hi!”

 

The corner of Robin’s mouth curled upward. “Hey.”

 

Jaime whistled skeptically as he observed the handiwork of their speedster. “I don’t think Nightwing will be happy about the mess you made, _hermano_.”

 

Tarp had been laid around the room earlier on in hopes of keeping the floor dry. However, in the hour Bart volunteered to paint, the walls were colored in long strokes with no real beginning or end. Streaks of the approved slate blue, along with neon orange and pink and a yellowish-green color, screamed at every corner and splattered on the cement floor. Right above the window nearest to the entrance, was Cosmo from the Fairly OddParents.

 

Bart shrugged. “I’ll call creative license.”

 

“You’re totally in trouble.” Jaime grinned.

 

“Well, he told me I could paint the place. Then gave me this paint, right?” Bart dangled the paint-roller in his hand, which was currently a ghastly mixture of bright pink and periwinkle. Robin moved an inch to the right before paint could drip on his shoe. “So I said, ‘okay!’ No problem! Slate blue; crash, I could do that. Then I got bored. Like, why should the room always be _blue_? And if we’re rebuilding the cave into a tower, then we should totally use cave colors—”

 

“Caves aren’t neon orange,” Robin piped in.

 

“—and,” Bart’s eyes gleamed. “Then I decided it was boring. Seriously. When the Flash and Nightwing and all of them inherited the cave, it felt too much like, I dunno—a _cave_. We should have the walls speak! Shout to the world: we’re back and better than ever!”

 

On the following note, the paint roller fell to the cement floor with an ugly _SPLAAAT._ Bits of paint shot through the air like fireworks and wetted Bart’s calf, along with Robin’s civvies-pants and Jaime’s Vans. Jaime cursed.

 

“Oh, uh.” Bart scratched his head thoughtfully, smudging excessive paint in his hair. “Whoops.”

 

But then, Robin pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket because Robins were just _cool_ like that. Without any forewarning, he wiped orange paint off Bart’s forehead, then allowed the speedster to have it for himself.

 

“Whoa. _Whoa_ , it totally came off!” Bart dangled the material in the air and eyed it thoughtfully. He split into a grin. “It’s got a Bat Symbol and everything!”

 

“Special material made by Batman himself. It’s…what we use to gather liquid evidence during cases.” Robin crossed his arms, looking very much like Nightwing at the moment. Only he wasn’t. Robin was _Robin_ , and Bart liked that very much.

 

“So it’s not a hanky.” He dangled it between his hands.

 

Robin smirked. “No. It’s not.”

 

“Can I keep it?”

 

The newly equipped intercom system sounded, Nightwing’s voice coming through. _“I need everyone to meet in the comm.-center for a debriefing on the next mission.”_

 

It was still too loud—deafening to anyone within the vicinity and basically anyone in a five-mile radius. As far as they knew, Karen was still messing with the wiring and figuring out their electricity bill. Nonetheless, the trio, along with everyone else who meandered around the Tower, suited up and appeared in the room.

 

Nightwing totally flipped out. He entered with Flash following in suit—froze, then appeared at the core of their meeting area. A frown fell across his lips as he noted the streak of purple on the projector. Before he could say a word, Wally placed a hand on his shoulder and grinned.

 

Impulse leaned into Robin’s bubble. “You think I’m in trouble?”

 

Judging by the way Wally was taking it and how Nightwing suddenly face-palmed, he doubted it. Robin shook his head, even offering a pensive smile. “He’s in a good mood.”

 

“How can you tell?”

 

“Trust me. He is.”

 

Ten minutes into the debriefing, Jaime snatched Chicken Whizees out of Bart’s hands and shoved them elsewhere. The dilemma was a pattern of kills appearing across the country. At first they appeared to be random, but the seniors deciphered a conclusion.

 

“These are the first fifteen victims in his killing spree.” Nightwing flicked his wrist and the profile of the said fifteen people appeared on a holo-board. “If you take the first letter of every victim’s first name and put them together, you get a message.”

 

Paying attention during mission briefings were usually less of a struggle for Bart. Being in the past so long, he knew which missions he needed to listen closely to. Standing between Blue and Robin made him giddy, and he was happy sneaking glances to Tim occasionally, who stood tall and was too slow to notice. He kept looking, even when Wally was giving him a frown under the Flash cowl.

 

“Flash, Bumblebee, Batgirl and I will be Alpha. We’ll hit Phoenix, Arizona, where the most recent killings have taken place.” Nightwing turned his head to their little trio and the holo-board behind him shifted, until an HD-hologram of the San Francisco Bay area took form. “Wonder Girl, Superboy, Lagoon Boy, Beast Boy and Impulse will go to San Francisco as Beta. Robin, you will lead the squad.”

 

In that instant, Robin’s form slackened, eyes widening beneath his mask for clearly everyone to see. “Me?”

 

Nightwing nodded tightly, then began to list off the names for the following team. There was a smile on his face—amused and probably even proud. Bart couldn’t keep his own grin from spreading across his lips; he elbowed Robin kindly in the ribcage, who hardly seemed phased.

 

“Me,” Robin said again, much quieter for only their trio to hear.

 

“You’re a good leader,” Blue Beetle chimed.

 

Impulse grinned wholesomely, then elbowed the other teen in the ribcage. “C’mon, Fearless Leader! What could possibly go wrong?”

 

Robin made a face. “A lot of things.”

 

“Yeah? Well, I believe in you.” Speaking in softer tones, Impulse nudged his current leader again, even more tactile than usual. His smile strengthened and he stared the other teen in the eye. “You’re gonna do great and everything’s going to be fine.”

 

For a moment, he was sure Robin was going to frown again, unconvinced. But a second later, he smiled back, returning the bro-nudge. “Thanks.”

 

“Welcome. So. Uh—” Impulse scratched his head. “What’s the mission for again?”

**xxx**

The world stopped breathing.

 

Whether it was the crackle of the bullet as it pierced through the walls of the now-abandoned ship, or Impulse’s blood-curdling scream, everyone forgot their current duties. Wonder Girl nearly dropped a civilian and baby in the ocean as she flew them to safety. Superboy and Lagoon Boy lost leverage on the ship as the howl shot through their ears, and the green elephant Beast Boy hesitated, instantly freezing between shooting water at hissing flames.

 

 Robin’s heart hammered in horror. He gripped two freeze-batarangs from his utility belt, face a sickly white and—no. “ _No.”_

 

He couldn’t crumble in panic; not as leader in front of the team. So he launched himself toward the ship, running across the boardwalk and hopping across pillars of cement that kept the dock afloat over the waters, then dove onboard.

 

They’d gone to San Francisco. The primary suspect for every one of these murders was Slade Wilson. _Deathstroke._ What unnerved Nightwing was the fact nearly every murder was a simpleton—someone unimportant. Someone with a name to play a game with his big brother. Knowing all of these instances, Tim did what he could. He ordered the team to interrogate victims’ family or housemates, note certain recurring patterns in the kills, to match Deathstroke’s technique. Bart had been more enthusiastic than the others, assuring Tim that he was doing a good job as leader.

 

It led them to a boat on the San Francisco Bay, which had been set on fire. And _now_ , Robin was finding every means possible to get on that boat and get his speedster out of danger.

 

_“Robin—”_

“I’ve got it,” he cut off, ignoring the tremor in his own voice. “All the passengers are off the ship. Bart was sent in to make sure it was clear. I’m getting him out of there. Keep the ship stable.”

 

Superboy hesitated with a response. Finally, _“Be careful.”_

He needn’t be told twice. He was squad leader. They’d inspected the area only minutes ago, asking nearby people if they’d noticed anything suspicious when the explosion sounded. Then, Wonder Girl found the sinking ship and reported the hundreds of people that were on board. They needed _help._ But what was happening right now was his fault. He’d been the one to instruct Bart to return to the ship for stragglers—then too busy stalking the coast for any whereabouts of Deathstroke. Too determined to make Nightwing proud by finding _Dick’s_ enemy.

 

And for that, he was so incredibly _stupid._

 

Through his worry and anxiety, the ship was like a labyrinth. Robin turned every corner, skidded down every corridor, and ripped apart every door. Poker chips and game cars spilled to the floor in one of the rooms, while lottery machines had toppled over. Cabin doors had been thrown open—probably, Tim thought with a metallic taste in his mouth, from when Impulse went scavenging.

 

Come on. Where was he? _Come on._

 

Robin darted down the stairs into the basement, taking four steps at a time with his adrenaline spiking each time his boots slammed into the ground.

 

Impulse lay at the end of the cold cellar, smothered in his own pool of blood and curled into the fetal position.

 

“Bart,” he whispered urgently under his breath. Robin collapsed to his knees, dropping the bo stick in hand to examine his fallen comrade. His fault. _His_ mistake.

 

“Hurts…so… _bad—_ ” Bart’s hands clawed the disgusting wound where thick red spilled along the coast of skin like an ocean. It blended with the color of Impulse’s gloves, soaked his uniform, and dripped— _drip, drip, drip…_ Shaky hands palmed the gash, smearing blood all over his thigh.

 

In that moment, Robin froze.

 

He’d seen murder. He witnessed amputation, thrown himself into bullets without hesitation, delved into the situation with amazing courage that _Batman_ dubbed as stupidity, and managed to calculate a plan for everything—even managing to save all three of his mentors’ hides using only his wit.

 

For the past two years, he’d lived the legend as Robin, the Boy Wonder, but suddenly he couldn’t even remember how to stand on his own two _feet._ His hands trembled, forgetting which compartment he kept gauze or padding or sedative or even a _rope._

 

A _tutt_ ing sound rattled the room. They weren’t alone.

 

Shrouded under the shadows, Deathstroke stepped forward beneath the tiny, wobbly light above them. He was amused, a ghost of a smile lined precariously beneath his mask and tangled with the complicated gun Robin assumed the creep shot Impulse with.

 

“Tsk, tsk, Robin. What took so long?”

 

Instantly he reanimated. This was what they were here for. This was why four teams were scattered around, trying to find this disgusting _crook._ The one who just _shot his team mate._ “You’re going to pay for this.”

 

“Anger doesn’t look good on you, _boy._ ” Deathstroke hummed, taking steps back. “Your friend doesn’t look well.”

 

At the mention of Bart, Tim’s resolve evaporated. He looked down to the speedster, who was curled into himself with pain and had a hand tight on his leg. Green orbs looked to him behind slits—not even the smallest tear dripping from the corner of his eye.

 

“Go,” Impulse wheezed, so… _serious_ and so _unlike_ himself that Tim’s chest stuttered. “I’ll be fine—” He closed his eyes, seething in pain.

 

Robin didn’t hesitate. He wanted to hurt the man that _shot_ his best friend. Taking a step forward, his hands tightened on his bo staff, jaw contracting. Deathstroke never gave him a chance to make a second move. A metal tablet adorned his hands, and he threw it at Robin’s feet.

 

Thirty seconds glared at the teen in a glowing LED light. _Twenty-nine. Twenty-eight. Twenty-seven—_

“What’s it gonna be? Chase after me?” Deathstroke mocked. “Or the boy?”

 

 _Shit._  

 

“It was nice seeing you. We should do this again sometime.” He threw another object at them—a smokebomb. On instinct, Robin lunged toward Impulse, arms wrapping violently over the other teen’s torso. He covered their mouths, refusing to inhale any other excess fumes, then broke into a run.

 

“G-Goafterhim!” Bart shouted, but his voice teetered off into a pained cry. Blood was soaking Robin’s uniform. From the corner of his eye, he could see sober green eyes glaring at him in disbelief. “What are you _doing_?!”

 

“Saving your ass!” Tim snapped hastily. “Shut up!”

 

_Tick. Tick. Tick. BOOM._

**xxx**

The rest of the day…

 

_“Ohmigod—Bart!”_

_“He needs medical attention, **NOW.”**_

****

_“We need a doctor! Gunshot wound—”_

_“—the bullet’s still in his knee—”_

_“Do it **fast**_ **.** _It’s already healing **improperly!”**_

****

…went by like a blur.

 

Ow. Owowowowowowow. It was like every part of his body had grown numb, then the pain forced its way to the center—to the wound, which laughed at him in a bloodied red, his vision blurring in and out as it looked him over smugly. He could make out nurses screaming at freaky La’gaan and Superboy pushing back news reporters and Beast Boy taking special interest in going to the morgue and—

 

Where was Robin? They’d been thrown into the current of the explosion, where Wonder Girl snatched up both of them and flew straight to the hospital.

 

He wasn’t sure how many people had gotten around him, just that there were several colorful outfits and doctors that were alarmed. A particular blob stuck out to him as he was laid onto one of the hospital beds. Blurry blue eyes. Black hair.

 

“Tim?” he croaked.

 

No. The grip on his hand was way too strong to be Robin. Bart once had a field day asking Superboy if the big guy could lift him up with one finger—which was proper entertainment for about an hour, despite how annoyed the _Man of Steel, Jr._ looked. Right now, head pressed against the pillow and cold sweat drenching Bart’s hair—Superboy wasn’t annoyed. He looked scared..

 

Conner spoke to him, but the words jumbled together like that weird voice on the super-retro cartoon about the boy named…after a nut. Walnut and Snuppy or something like that. The last few words, Bart managed to catch. _“…artificial kneecap._ ”

 

“Do me a favor.” Bart gasped, the prickling and gauging sensation ripping his knee apart from inside out. “Don’t…don’t tell Flash I screwed up.”

 

**xxx**

**CALIFORNIA PACIFIC MEDICAL CENTER**

**SEVEN HOURS LATER**

**xxx**

The mixture of gauze and a metal brace was an interesting touch, Bart decided. It made his right leg look hulked out compared to his left one, which was almost comically bare in comparison. Almost. Staring at it, even seven hours after his surgery, it didn’t tickle him with a laugh. The black binding was nearly two inches thick in circumference with added gauze that he was surprised didn’t cut off the circulation in his leg. It extended from the upper half of his inner thigh down to his ankle, and until Bart wiggled his toes, he was convinced it was a different leg altogether.

 

He couldn’t feel his knee.

 

Maybe it was the fact that it was wrapped up like a jumbo-sized taco. Jaime would roll his eyes later when he made the comparison, but it was true. He contributed half the sensation from not being able to see his leg and the other half from the thick wrapping.

 

Had he been in a better mood, Bart might have admitted it wasn’t a bad way to lose his kneecap. He once read that Harry Potter’s stunt double was now a paraplegic due to a special effect that went wrong. Bart doubted many people lost their knee by Deathstroke shooting them. That would suck, and really, what on earth did Slade Wilson have against kneecaps? Bart certainly didn’t have a problem with them—sure, they got a little hairy, but the whole speedster-shaving-their-legs-to-be-faster thing was a total myth.

 

Maybe.

 

Wally bopped him once for asking.

 

But this was his knee. His leg. Without it, Bart wouldn’t be able to run; which meant no Impulse, no being a superhero, no running alongside the Flash. It was a pretty obvious fact that the Fastest Teen Alive did not like to be restrained, but vibrating out of this cast would exacerbate his point rather than help it. (He learned _that_ word in the dictionary the doctors left by the nightstand; it took him two minutes to sift through all of it.)

 

When things finally calmed down, the nurse informed him the surgery went well despite the lack of time they had to work with. The gauze, she explained, was because he was twitchy. The team made it especially clear that because of his healing abilities, it was possible for the bullet to heal inside his leg— _improperly_. During his hysteria, he apparently managed to vibrate a whole scalpel through his bone and through the table until it _clanged_ on the floor.

 

Bart would be kept in San Francisco at this particular hospital between five to ten days, depending on how he was doing. There was six to eight weeks of recovery time for the normal human. Bart was too miserable to calculate how long it would take for him to be up and walking again.

 

On the bright side, Superboy was a steady presence at his side. He woke up with Conner at his door, speaking to a nurse that had gone googly-eyed for the Boy-That-Never-Grew. When he was done, Conner returned to him with a fat, overstuffed panda dressed like Kid Flash. If you squeezed it, its catchphrase was— _“You gonna eat that?”_

They didn’t talk. Conner looked tense, staring at the stiff form of Bart’s knee with a frown on his face. In return, Bart’s throat was dry and he was hungry, but he didn’t feel like eating. They went a full hour where Bart tapped out simple phrases in Morse code. Around the time he was re-enacting the first ten pages of _50 Shades of Gray_ with his finger, Conner turned pink and requested that he stopped.

 

“What’s taking the team so long to arrive?” Bart finally asked, voice raspy. That is, if his team _wanted_ a faulty speedster with no leg. He was tired with a headache, but trying his hardest not to sleep. Bart was annoyed.

 

The frown carved on Conner’s face softened and he looked back to the teen. He scooted a chair close by and sat down, looking oddly large in a room with things too small and meticulous. “Everyone’s been informed. The team went back to help clean up the debris left over from the battle. Nightwing and Flash, too.”

 

Bart sat alert on the bed. “So Wally knows—?”

 

“That you’re in the hospital? Yeah.” Nodding curtly, Conner crossed his arms and reminded Bart faintly of one of those TV fathers who interrogated the boy wanting to go out with their daughter. In the two years Bart landed himself in the past, Conner and he weren’t especially close. There were emotional wounds that negated any attempt to make real friends with Superboy, so…yeah. This was weird. And interesting.

 

At the confirmation of Wally, Bart ducked his head in shame and fisted hands into his blanket. He’d been in a sour mood since waking up and made no effort to hide it. That was probably why Superboy was on edge trying to figure out something to say.

 

The truth was, Bart had been reckless. He knew that was how he landed himself in this position. After being in this decade for too long, he’d let… _miniscule_ feelings and urges get the better of him, even if he knew it was stupid. There was no way to hide his frustration after how hard he worked to make the future better. While he wanted nothing more than to bond with the family he never grew up with and play with his dad and aunt and curl up in the crib with them, there was that bitter voice in his head that appeared forty-years too early and reminded him to keep his head clear.

 

What good was he to the Flash if he screwed up so badly and couldn’t _run_ anymore?

 

He was interrupted from his thoughts as Conner curled a hand on his shoulder. Bart flinched in surprise.

 

Slowly a smile fumbled across Conner’s lips, sincere and encouraging and still very much uncomfortable with the situation. Bart faintly wondered if it was a result of not enough hugs in his time spent as a genomorph or if Bart was intimidating.

 

(He doubted the last one. The few times Bart managed a glare worthy—to _his eyes_ —of Batman, Cassie and Gar fell on the floor, holding their sides and laughing.)

 

“No matter what happens, Wally, Barry, and Jay aren’t going to be mad at you.” Smile broadening slightly, Conner did another once-over of Bart’s leg and grimaced. “Wally wanted to come here first. But he’s bent on taking out Deathstroke for what he did to you. They ran into some startling dirt around the time you woke up.”

 

“Sounds crash,” Bart murmured. His throat clenched tightly and he nodded jerkily. “Thanks.”

 

Only minutes later, the door flew open and his team spilled through. Bart suddenly found himself at the bottom of an ocean of granola bars, Hershey’s Kisses, fruit-loops, Cheetoes, Lay’s Chips of all variety, and many other things that made him wonder if his teammates totally bought out the entire convenience store down the street. He picked up the nearest bag of Chips Ahoy cookies while Cassie threw her arms around his shoulders and showered him in kisses.

 

“Are you okay?” Her eyebrows wilted in pained concern as Beast Boy morphed into a tiny green monkey and climbed his arm to his shoulder. Gar made squeaky sounds and snatched a cookie. “How do you feel?”

 

Struggling for a smile, Bart nodded and greeted them kindly. “Sedated.”

 

His voice fell after that, and he nibbled on a cookie. Looking up again, he was met with Cassie’s look of surprise and Gar tugging on one of his ears. Silence filled the room, only to be fought against the steady beating of the heart-rate monitor.

 

In the hiccup of conversation, La’gaan nudged an elbow into Conner’s ribcage and very loudly asked, “Did the meds take away his short attention span?”

 

Bart made eye contact with Conner. He arched an eyebrow, expecting for Superboy to offer an explanation, but the man seemed to be at a loss. So instead, he turned his head back to Cassie, whose smile wavered. Beast Boy even dropped the cookie he was eating.

 

Well then. “So,” Bart started skeptically, “where’s Robin?”

 

All the shock melted away from everyone’s face. Still, no one looked eager to talk. He wasn’t sure if there was something on his face, or maybe something had gone bad with the mission—(well, something _did_ go bad: _his injury_ )—but this beating around the bush was definitely not Bart’s cup of tea.

 

“We didn’t expect Deathstroke to return to San Francisco.” Cassie placed her hands on her hips, eyebrows furrowed. Her look of relief quickly melted into a grimace, and she smoothed the hair on Bart’s forehead. “Nightwing’s worried that the tower may be bugged. He and the other bats are working on it.”

 

Bart’s hand cupped his knee through the cast. “So he’s not going to come?”

 

“No. Well, yes. He’s not hurt—” Cassie added the last bit quickly, watching the frown on their speedster’s face tighten. “He’s just…ah…help me out here, BB?” She tangled a hand through her hair. It’d gotten longer over the years, just as she got taller. There was a humbleness and maturity in her eyes that hadn’t been there when they first met.

 

Beast Boy, too. When he morphed back into his furry semi-human self, he was much taller than when Bart met him. Which was only natural—considering the guy was only a year younger than Bart himself. Tentative mirth tingled in Gar’s eyes. “Well. He’ll come. Most likely. Um. Can I have another cookie?”

 

Cassie rolled her eyes and shoved the bag of Chips Ahoy in the other teen’s stomach. “He’s okay. And he’ll come. We’ll make sure of it.”

 

The speedster nodded, but couldn’t help his frown. In fact, the way that it was being phrased, Gar and Cassie made it sound like Tim didn’t _want_ to show up. Which was upsetting. Reaching for a bag of Cheese Puffs, Bart opened it and nibbled. Not specifically scarfing down, either. He was too upset and frustrated.

 

The gang stayed for a little while longer. Conner observed, La’gaan said stupid comments, Cassie bit her lip and tried to be an optimist, and Gar looked torn between asking and stealing another bag of Bart’s comfort goodies. The mood was different—some change in the room that was too quiet and too tiresome for the brunet to question.

 

Robin never came by. Eventually, his team had to leave in order for a full debriefing (they promised to fill him in, since it was the only other thing Bart commented on) and left Bart to his thoughts and…plentiful snacks. There wasn’t much to do. Eating hurt. His mind whirred an inhuman pace—brought on by the frustration of his leg and being caught off guard by Deathstroke, so eventually he was left with a headache, a slow frame-by-frame of the crappy hospital TV, and racing heart beat—which was natural to him, but alarmed the nurses.

 

After a while, they increased the dosage of his medication to help him sleep, even though he insisted that his body metabolized the drugs too quickly for it to kick in. (That was when the sickeningly-sweet nurse rolled her eyes and began pronouncing words like he was five.)

 

Bart spent the few hours pretending he could feel the drug circulate through his system and affect his state of mind. His heart monitor hummed; hypnotic and mesmerizing as it reminded him he was still awake. Nurses and orderlies bustled outside—some perky, some somber. The TV flickered with a retro re-run of Boy Meets World.

 

He hated it here. But at least the catheter was cool.

 

Bart let the sounds take over, then fell asleep.

 

**xxx**

_He had this dream a thousand times—over and over since coming to the past. It was a memory, all still intact in his head, and one he would never forget._

_Laying down wasn’t new. That was the scary part of the dream; the part where he couldn’t stand how he felt._

_No—not in the snow, body half eaten by the cold and nibbled at by frostbite. He curled into himself until his knees touched his chin and clenched his teeth until his jaw hurt. His bones ached. His muscles were numb. Yet none of it— **none of it** —felt his hands as he clawed into his calves. The warmth of tears seeping through the creases of his eyelids burned on his cheek with the inhibitor collar digging into his neck until he could no longer breathe. _

_It was his fault. He knew that. There were only a few times in the night where security was not as dangerous; where scavenging for food wouldn’t automatically come back and bite him in the ass._

_But there were others—less brave, more fearful of the world around them and practically depleted of all their muscles—that looked to him with dark, pleading eyes and faces that swooped in grim smiles. He fought off the common mentality that made him sick; the one that said, “Better to let them die of starvation, than allow them to suffer in life.”_

_He was the son of Don Allen; one of the Tornado Twins. The grandson of Barry Allen. The **Flash.** Heroes did **not** let people die. _

_He was a hero. He was a **hero.** He was a HERO. He just…h-he just didn’t…know how yet. _

_So he’d given them whatever food he found and overlooked scavenging rights. H-he’d find new food. Soon._

_The collar slowed his feet. Not his metabolism, nor his thoughts. He thought too fast—what’s_ going on why is this happeninghejustkickedthatCHILD _whythehell_ do we livehere _—until his mentality broke, and all his energy was depleted._

_But here he was now; unable to move and barely breathe. Around him, the people simply walked. After all, what was there to **do**? You got hit if you stopped working. If you stepped out of line. If you fell. If you cared for anything but the **objective.**_

****

_There was barely enough energy left in him. It hurt to inhale, hurt to squeeze the snow beneath him. Starvation burned his insides, consuming his stomach until it left scars of hunger in its place. He laughed because maybe, just **maybe** he would still be walking if he hadn’t given away his last bits of food to those kids. _

_No. He…he did good._

_“Is he still breathing?” asked a voice. (For the record—the **good** part of his dream. The best part.) _

_The touch of another person met Bart’s flesh—a warm hand that reached past the collar and settled carefully at the base of his neck. Heat travelled through Bart—a pulse that welcomed his own and suddenly evoked a squirm. He reached against it, like a helpless animal batting for its mother, and suddenly felt himself pulled into the person’s arms. His body was miniscule compared to the person that held him. Looking up, two eyes opened to find his savior._

_The **superhero** that had him. Tight and welcoming, with a black leathery cowl and a straight-lipped frown that stood out to the rest of the world’s fear. Bart’s stomach demanded food, and he took in the sight of the other person carefully. _

_“Is that…?” A second person started. “He’s…”_

_“Barry Allen’s grandkid.” Slowly—eerily, a caustic smirk curled against the man’s lips. “I knew it.”_

_“Wh-who…” Bart croaked—then sobbed softly, because it hurt to talk. But this was always the part of the dream that let him sleep better. “Who are you?”_ Lemme go _, his mind started,_ lemmegolemmegolemme **go** _—_

_“Red Robin,” the man said. “This is Nightwing. We’re saving you.”_

 


	2. Confinement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bart thinks back to when Tim and he first got along.

The next two days went by as slowly as Bart anticipated. Out and about instead of restrained like the future made everything move so _slowly._ Bart memorized the whole Nickelodeon show line-up starting from _Max and Ruby_ to George Lopez at midnight. Doctors checked on him constantly, with some nurses suggesting he start physical therapy soon. Fortunately, he was able to get out of it twice by faking massive diarrhea.

 

(When you eat four hospital trays back-to-back for breakfast _alone_ , it kind of helped with assumptions.)

 

Despite that, Bart didn’t have much of an appetite. Otherwise the entire hospital may have been eaten out by now. Along that line, it was apparently a requirement to bring him food whenever teammates visited. Bart also had gift baskets full of everything found at the local WalMart—or at least, the food aisles. Along with pot pies. Plenty of his get-well-soon gift baskets came from the citizens of Central City, and for some reason, they liked sending him pot pies.

 

Wally snorted as he dumped another container of the said food on the overbed table and placed both hands on his hips. “You have enough food in here to keep you going for the next century.”

 

“And Grandpa Barry still bought me Bugles.” Smiling innocently, Bart flipped through the pages of his Disney Princess coloring book and proceeded with blending the colors of Mulan’s armor with his crayons. “You bring my Chicken Whizees?”

 

 Wally rolled his eyes. As the youngest speedster searched for the right shade of gray, the said bag of Chicken Whizees was tossed at his feet.

 

Grandpa Barry chuckled at the other side of the bed, baby Donny _(Dad_ ) instantly nibbling on one of Bart’s toes. “It looks to me like you’re enjoying solitary confinement.”

 

At that, Bart stopped coloring and frowned at the palettes in Mulan’s hair. “I’m really not.”

 

His attitude hadn’t changed since the incident. The metal and the gauze around his knee were cold to the touch, but jerked every time he dared extend his leg. Nurses scolded him for twitching, but _c’mon_ , he was a speedster! Twitching was like in the job description.

 

He didn’t want to start physical therapy. Not now. Not ever.

 

It scared him more than anything.

 

Bart was ready to give up his arm to start running again. At least _that_ way he’d still have both his legs. The (ex)speedster hadn’t seen his knee in two days. The last image he had of it was soaked in a sheet of thick blood—and the thought of touching it scared him. They gave him an artificial _knee cap._ It wasn’t just his leg anymore, and…what if he couldn’t even _run_?

 

The silence that followed his response must have lasted a long time. The next thing Bart knew, Wally and Grandpa Barry were sharing sympathetic looks while Donny moved onto Bart’s good pinky toe.

 

“You know we’ll be waiting for you whenever you’re ready to come back.” Wally grabbed a nearby box of Fruit RollUps and peeled one.

 

Bart shrugged jerkily. “If you want me back.”

 

 _“What_?” Barry frowned. “Of _course_ we want you back, Bart. That’s just silly.”

 

“ _I_ wouldn’t want me back.” Bart returned the expression and crossed his arms, body curling as best it could in his position. His demeanor scrunched and he couldn’t help his own scowl—it was _hard_ to try and look nonchalant and fake a happy smile. “I should have been smarter.”

 

“No shit you should have been.” _Slap._

 

“Ow!” Bart pressed a hand to his head. “Grandpa Barry, Wally just hit me!”

 

Wally rolled his eyes and crossed his arms, looking slightly (just _slightly_ ) more intimidating than Bart did. His lips stretched across his face into a frown, the irritation obvious. “Look, kid, you’re just beating yourself up because you screwed up on a mission. You’re fifteen—screwing up is a second gift. Don’t take it to heart and do it better next time. Ow!”  Barry swatted his nephew’s arm.

 

“What Wally _means_ is,” the eldest speedster picked up his son and joined the other Flash on the other side of the bed, “we’re glad that you’re okay, Son. That’s all that matters. Deathstroke is…” Grandpa Barry’s grimaced. “Deathstroke’s not someone to mess with. And we’re all just grateful Robin got you out of there when he could.”

 

Biting the inside of his mouth, Bart looked out the window. “So where is he?”

 

His room was on the twentieth floor—too far up for him to make a daredevil jump (which was fine; _running_ was usually more of his thing). Wonder Girl flew past it once. Beast Boy came by as a green hummingbird, and he could even see Superboy leaping through the outskirts of the city occasionally. (Only people were getting mad with the craters he left, so Conner had to stop.)

 

He’d yet to see a bat grappling hook. Well—technically Nightwing came by to debrief Bart on the mission, but Bart didn’t think he was cool enough for Wally’s boyfriend to kick through the glass door or pull out a diamond and doodle an opening against the window like in the movies.

 

Of course, his mood didn’t brighten as he watched both men exchange looks. Ordinarily, maybe Bart would have been flattered—having Jay, Grandpa, _and_ Wally concerned for him made Bart happy. But the way his team members and now his own family seemed to be treating him after landing himself in the hospital annoyed him. A lot.

 

Cassie tried to keep a smile. She wasn’t quick and eager to please like a few years ago—she _was_ Wonder Girl and she _was_ amazing, like an older sister he’d never had. If anything, Bart had grown respectfully scared of her over the years they’d known each other. Her special treat was homemade chocolate chip cookies—and each one was personalized with more motivational words and a hug. After a while, Bart just couldn’t organize his feelings into proper words and Cassie ran out of things to say.

 

Gar sat on the edge of the bed as a little green Pomeranian and raided through Bart’s Doritos. (Unfortunately the stomach of a little dog could only take so much—then the nurse kicked BB out for puking Doritos on Bart’s blanket.)

 

Jaime came by, too. Instead of puking on his bed or bringing cookies, he tossed a seven-hundred paged book in Bart’s direction called, _The Big Book of Origami_ and explained to his best friend that he’d probably get a kick out of it. “That,” Jaime had said, “or as like a paper weight or something. Milagro bought it at her school book fair so her dollhouse could have more elevation above sea level.”

 

Even Arsenal came to visit. He gave Bart a mini-decked out Nerf Gun to “shoot at the TV and nurses” whenever they bothered him, since the brunet wasn’t interested in breaking out like the ex-archer was.

 

But no Robin. Two days of solitude and confinement (which in retrospect wasn’t bad, so long as Grandma Iris and Dawn kept letting him borrow his baby aunt’s coloring books) and not _once_ had Tim come by. It was like his team leader dumped him here and was too disgusted with Bart to visit.

 

And—well, that was where Bart’s train of thought cycled, went to overtime, and told him what a lousy speedster he was.

 

“C’mon. You know how goal-minded Bats are.” Wally swatted him on the shoulder, snapping Bart out of his ministrations. A sympathetic smile spread across the elder speedster’s lips—which, in Bart’s world must have meant he looked _really_ pitiful. “But they also beat themselves up when something happens when they’re on duty. I’m telling you right now, Dick is probably trying to drag him here as we speak.”

 

Bart fidgeted. His eyebrows furrowed and he couldn’t help meeting Wally’s eyes with curiosity. “So…what would happen if _you_ got moded and it was Nightwing’s fault? And he didn’t show up?”

 

“Oh, he’d show up.” Wally snorted, hands placed on his hips. “I’m his boyfriend. I’d probably try to break out of the hospital and kick his ass if he didn’t.”

 

The younger speedster opened his mouth—

 

“Which,” Grandpa Barry interrupted, voice cracking, “is _not_ a good idea. So don’t.” At that moment, Donny’s bowels decided to announce themselves, erupting in a loud disgusting noise, followed by a fit of cheerful giggles.

 

“Oh,” Wally grimaced. “Ew.”

 

“Ew.” Bart wiggled his toes, which were now soaked in his baby father’s saliva. “Ew, ew, ew, ewew—”

 

“You two are going to have kids some day and think it’s the most natural thing in the world.” Grandpa rolled his eyes and picked up the tiny tot. Once he did, Donny’s gross mud pie made itself visible in a swollen diaper. The eldest speedster wrinkled his nose as his two descendents exchanged looks. “Okay. It’s gross. But it’s also the most natural thing in the world!”

 

“The… _perks_ of raising a baby with a hyper metabolism,” Wally grinned.

 

Grandpa Barry eyed him, returning his old student’s look with much wryness as he collected both the baby and the diaper bag. “I’ll go _extra slow._ In the room down the hall. So you’ll have two minutes to have whatever brotherly cousin-to-cousin moment you want.” He left the room with a smile, Donny in his grip. It was almost enough to conjure a real one from Bart too— _almost._

 

Once the door shut behind them, Bart sank in his bed and pushed the overbed table away. He looked to the ceiling at the dull fluorescent lights, its hum becoming something homey in the brunet’s ears, then side-glanced the smiling Wally.

 

Sure, they had their occasional spats, but Bart liked to think of them as refreshing. Most people shrugged him off and tried to be patient with him. Jay and Joan filled in the roles as his parents since he was living with them. That made Grandpa Barry and Grandma Iris just like they were— _grandparents._ Who occasionally punished him for silly things, but still. Wally and Artemis were his big brother and sister. (Not that they were together anymore, but that was a long, complicated story that gave Bart and half the superhero community headache.)

 

“So what bugs you more, kid? The fact you’re stuck in a hospital room or that Robin won’t come and see you?”

 

Two hits he didn’t want to talk about. Bart shrugged, a heavy sigh escaping his lips. He switched sides, back facing his cousin.

 

“What? Not gonna chat my ear off?” A soft scoff left Wally’s lips. “That’s new.” A step later, Wally zipped around the bed and met the younger speedster’s eyes. “You’re afraid of physical therapy.”

 

“NoI’mnot.”

 

“ _Please._ You’ve faked diarrhea every time a nurse came into the room, you refuse to look at your leg, and every time someone starts directing the conversation toward your knee you glare at them.” Part mirth, part irritation fluttered through Wally’s done. Bart’s face scrunched—“Ugh, wow. Kid, a frown does _not_ suit you.”

 

“I did it for the first ten years of my life.” Bart turned in the bed again, eying the TV. Still, Wally remained in his field of vision, undeterred by the younger speedster’s attempt to avoid the problem. And Bart couldn’t simply _leave._ Instead, he sighed huffily. “How do you know that about me anyway?”

 

“Because you’re a fifteen-year-old boy full of more pubescent angst than normal teenaged boys. And you’re my cousin.” The corner of Wally’s lip curled slightly. He reached over the bed for the discarded bag of Chicken Whizees and extended his arm. Green orbs looked to green, wry, knowing, and sweet.

 

Yeah. Wally was definitely happier now that he was Keystone City’s Flash. Bart stared at the unopened bag with hesitation. Then, finally he grabbed it and laid his head against the pillow. “It’s not that I’m… _afraid_ of physical therapy—”

 

“Oh, no. You’re definitely afraid.” Bart frowned, Wally smiled back pleasantly. “You see, if _I_ were confined to a hospital bed for a week, I’d go insane. Especially if it means my leg is trapped in a hunk of metal. B, you’re a _Flash_ and an Allen. You’re going to get out of this without a scratch and—and—you have your leg on top of an origami book.”

 

Without realizing it, Bart’s lips quirked into a smile. “Jaime brought it instead of food. He figured I’d get more entertainment than chowing down on it.” He strained his arms and reached out for the said book. “Still can’t get the valley folds right. Once I do that I’m going to make a little paper zoo for Dad and Aunt Dawn. You know—if they don’t put them in their mouths.”

 

Wally made a noise. “You have strange friends.”

 

“You’re just _jealous._ ” Bart raised his head high and harrumphed. “Now what’s your _point_?”

 

“My _point_ is that you’re going to be out on that field in two weeks at the latest.” The older speedster rolled his eyes and ran a hand through red hair with exasperation. He let out a vacant sigh (obviously having one of those, _what-am-I-going-to-do-with-you_ moments) and half-heartedly dared to noogie the short teen’s head. “So stop sulking. You came to the past, prevented Uncle B from kicking the bucket, monitored the hell out of Blue so he didn’t go _dark-side_ on us and helped prevent a secret alien invasion.”

 

Halfway through the conversation the brunet went from staring at his cousin to scrutinizing the ring on his own hand. Just like all of Grandpa’s Flash rings, it was gold and made out of plastic, but it lacked its usual gleam. And maybe there was some truth to that.

 

Bart had spent the past two years fulfilling every part of his mission, from making sure the Flash lived to ridding the world of terrible intergalactic criminals. The dream came back, too—the one that changed the way he thought of the world and saved him from dying by the inhibitor collar.

 

Everything asked of him by Red Robin and the Nightwing of his era, Bart did.

 

“So what do you do then,” he asked quietly, “when you finish the race?”

 

It still took waking up, getting ready for school every day, and beating up bad guys in the year 2018 to remind Bart he was no longer in his present. His first few days after living arrangements made with the Garricks were enacted with anxiety and the anticipation of an apocalypse. _For the world to flush down a toilet of misery._ But instead of hiding himself behind careful wording and cautious smiles, Bart was…happy. Relieved. _Stuck_ , but the future probably changed so much that it wasn’t worth going back anyway. It was hardly ever worth calling _home._

 

“You find a bigger track to race on.” Wally leaned over the brunet’s bed, amusement clearer on his face before ruffling brown hair. “A more challenging one.”

 

Great. Bart frowned. Running metaphors usually crashed his mode a least a little bit—right now it gave him a headache. He was still a speedster without a leg, stuck in a hospital room until he could convince himself to put weight on his feet. Not only that, but his best friend  refused to visit him.

 

“You’re starting to sound like Grandpa.”  

 

Wally wrinkled his nose. “Oh yeah. Settled down, corny jokes, and a set of poop blasters for twins.” He picked up a pair of Bart’s red Crayolas and started on a picture of Rapunzel. “I’m totally looking forward to that.”

 

To that, a soft sigh left the brunet’s lips. He peeled apart the bag and offered it up to his cousin. “Chicken Whizee?”

**xxx**

Despite Wally trying to offer a helpful hand, it was still Bart’s problem. He still dodged all the nurses’ attempts to get him out of the bed—which was easy. (Who knew a speedster’s bowels scared so many people.) Grandpa Barry had smiled when he came back, Donny smelling much nicer and as usual—in a new set of clothes after one of his super-mega baby poops. He, like Wally, assured his grandson that Bart would be on his feet eventually.

 

But that still left Robin as the problem. _Tim. Timmy Drake._ Grandpa came back into the room before Bart could ask for advice on how to deal with Tim. After Nightwing appeared the few nights before, Bart was ordered to follow his doctor’s orders and not do anything stupid. (That was an easy task, too. The only time the nurse got on his case was when he shot Nerf darts at the TV and one of the orderly’s head.)

 

However, that meant no comm.-link. Bart wasn’t sure how _that_ was supposed to reduce his stress. The teammates that visited offered tidbits of information, eyebrows furrowed before they’d hastily try to change the subject. Robin’s number was programmed into his cell phone, but mobile phones were so slow and _retro._

 

Adding to that, Bart didn’t want to be the one to call first. The _phone_ was supposed to be one of those ways to hang out with people. Calling Rob up and saying, _Hey, how you been? Oh, yeah, Deathstroke blew up my knee but don’t worry I’ll try better next time_ didn’t sound appropriate.

 

Maybe he was obsessing too much over it. Two years ago, Robin was in the furthest part of his mind when he came to the past. There were more important things; Bart knew he was doing risky business by preventing the Flash from dying, but so far it’d been a better world with Grandpa Barry living in it.

 

He never knew Red Robin or Nightwing’s names in the future; just knew that facial structure that the Nightwing in his time—with the grumpy scowls and refusal to call anyone “unimportant” by their first name—was not the Nightwing his cousin was dating. They let him— _made him_ read all of the history books on past superheroes. That was how he learned everything about his grandfather; everything his parents couldn’t fill the gap for from the stories told by an aging Grandma. 

 

Robin, too. He wasn’t as interested learning about back stories; Bart could memorize names and dates almost instantly, but like anyone that wore a collar or was forced to work for the Reach, he needed to know _how_ it happened. _Why_ someone would be born into a world and know instantly how disgusting it was.

 

So two years ago, he knew the name, the generation, and Tim Drake’s motivation to become the third Robin after Jason Todd blew up. Robin and he hung out under false pretenses when it was BB, Blue and them, but Bart (guiltily) spent more time observing Jaime Reyes and trying to find the one crack in the Scarab’s armor.

 

Finally Tim and he bonded nine months later—still, maybe against Bart’s will.

 

Snow made him miserable. In his future, it was the hardest season to scavenge for food. For a speedster with his metabolism, that wasn’t something he could afford. Bleak white drops fell in dark blankets, frozen to the touch, and each night he closed his eyes to sleep another day closer to death.

 

Of course, no one at Central City Middle School had issues like that to deal with. Everyone in eighth grade looked forward to the skiing trip in the middle of December. According to Wally, the P.E. teachers managed to pass it off as a ‘ _recreational survival skill’_ and the science teachers stood by their idea that it was a lesson on _climate conditions._ Nevertheless, it was the aim for all middle schoolers since it was a _‘grown up trip’_ two hours away from Central City, where they got to stay at a resort for an entire weekend.

 

Joan, Jay, Grandpa, Grandma, Wally, Aunt Mary, and Uncle Rudy all encouraged him to go in some little way. Wally assured him skiing was an okay-alternative to running. Nine months after his arrival, his true motives from the future were a frightening but very truthful thing. But instead of scolding him for keeping such a dangerous secret, they encouraged him to… _have fun._

 

He’d awkwardly held the permission slip during one of their Flash Family dinners (an unfortunate coincidence that they’d given it out the same day) as a crumpled scrap of paper he’d shoved into his pocket once the bell rang. Throughout his classes, Bart tried to forget it was burning a hole in his pocket, but there were very few things that he kept from the Garricks and his grandparents. How his school day went, why that girl Carol was so pretty, why Preston confused him—all of it. They were always willing to listen.

 

They were also ecstatic to hear he was going. Bart wasn’t.

 

“I am so _moded._ ”

 

“You shouldn’t be. Most kids your age would be excited to go skiing on the slopes.” On the bright side, Jay volunteered to be one of the chaperones. He held a warm smile, akin to an actual grandfather’s and for the most part, all of Bart’s classmates got along with him. (It helped that Jay was the chaperone that passed out hot cocoa with mini-marshmallows on the bus.)

 

Bart was miserable. Unlike Jay, who was comfortable in a sweater and a windbreaker, the brunet had been stuffed in two shirts, three sweaters, a bright red parka and some Sherpa hat that would make him very apprehensive in his life. Wally had laughed in his face, explaining it was “family tradition” and assured Bart that Dad and Aunt Dawn would probably have to go through it too when they reached his age. Probably sooner.

 

The painful point, however, was the fact he could barely move. The snow was too thick and plentiful for him to run, and the skis made him flop over like a duck.

 

“Yeah, but _other_ kids my age are out doing cool stuff. Like _saving the world_. _Cada oveja con su pareja._ ”

 

“Cada _what_?”

 

“It means I’d rather be with my friends than stay here.” Bart shifted uncomfortably in his many layers of clothes and crossed his arms. He stood tall, but even then fell in stature to Jay. Secretly, he hoped to finally reach that growth spurt he’d been aiming for since July—that way he’d be able to reach Wally for once and noogie _him._ “Jaime taught me that.”

 

The combination of snow and wind burned against his skin and the younger speedster shuddered. Unfortunately Jay wasn’t convinced otherwise. He chuckled softly, affectionate and cinnamon-y like the hot cocoa he sipped, and ruffled Bart’s hair above the fuzzy hat. “Bart, you’ve been here nine months and you’ve spent most of that time with the team. Consider this an alternative.”

 

“An _alternative?_ ”

 

Jay’s smile per usual wasn’t fazed by Bart’s crankiness. He looked around to the other students who were getting settled into the ski lodge just fine, then bent over so he was at eye-level with the small speedster. His gaze narrowed, brow fixed together. “You get to have a regular experience like a normal kid. Wally had a blast when he came here.”

 

“That’s because Wally wasn’t Kid Flash yet. And I’m not a normal kid.” Bart crossed his arms childishly and harrumphed. “I’m _weird_ and charming. You know, _Impulse._ ” He didn’t _do_ normal. Not like the other kids.

 

“Well today, you’re Bart Allen—my great-nephew from Max Crandall.”

 

“Who’s _Max Crandall?_ ”

 

“No one you need to worry about. Go ahead and have fun with your classmates.”

 

Bart blew the hair out of his face and waddled shamefully toward the lodge. It was only a matter of time before he stripped of all the layers, turned into Impulse, and went to crash whatever mode Jaime was currently facing. Or—maybe not.

 

Come to think of it, his _hermano_ mentioned this was the year the Reyes were on Jaime’s back about college applications and finishing strong. Beast Boy was out of the question, too—Gar was homeschooled by Miss Martian, and the last time Bart interrupted he was brain-blasted into thinking he was Sailor Moon—Princess of the Moon and guardian to all Sailor Senshi. (That had been a fun afternoon.)

 

So he was stuck.

 

“Great,” Bart muttered hastily to himself. “Great, great, _great._ ”

 

As he distanced himself from the buses, the brunet caught sight of a group of kids that was definitely not from Central City Middle School. And it was safe to say, Bart knew that body _anywhere._

Tim Drake. Robin.

 

At the other side of the ski lodge, sure enough, was the third Boy Wonder—average height, long legs, and high cheekbones. He may not have been dressed as Robin, but Bart _knew_ that face _and_ that haircut. _Tim Drake_ liked his hair short and cropped back, almost military like as the role of Robin.

 

No way. _No freaking way!_

 

Before he could help himself, Bart zipped over, shedding the extra layers of clothing as he did so and halted directly in front of Robin—right before he could actually _crash_. Robin made a non-verbal sound, eyes wide as Bart slapped both hands on either side of the taller teen’s face and scrutinized him.

 

Same pale skin. Same broad nose, with the sculpted face, jaw and thin lips. Hilariously, Robin was wearing a pair of skiing goggles that fitted _perfectly_ like his mask or sunglasses. “Um,” Robin started slowly, “Hi?” Beneath the sheen of the goggles, there was a sure sign of recognition in his eyes.

 

“ _OHMYGODTHISISSOCRASH!_ ” Bart couldn’t believe his eyes. Or his mind, for that matter. His jaw slackened in amazement. “It’s you! Here! In Kansas— _wow_ you could have picked a better spot.”

 

Of course, in all the time they’d known each other, Bart knew Robin to be the silent type. Robin was a foil to his own personality at times—never speaking, never inputting his decision unless he offered a new probability for the Bat-People to extract.

 

Yet here and now, the civvies-Robin broke into a smile around him. The execution was so perfect that it scarcely registered in Bart’s mind as fake.

 

Next to Robin were two unfamiliar people. The girl of the trio stepped up, confusion clearly written on her face. She was pretty, with long wavy black hair and bright eyes. “Do you…know him, Tim?”

 

“I, uh… _don’t_ , Ari. I’ve never been to Kansas in my life, remember?” _Man_ , that was probably the most Robin had spoken since they knew each other. A mirthful charm tingled in Robin’s tone. Carefully, the taller teen unclasped Bart’s fingers from his face and backed away just slightly.

 

Bart huffed angrily. “Sure you do—”

 

“My name’s Tim. Tim Drake. You must be with the Central City kids.” Shockingly, Robin’s— _Tim’s_ face remained firmed and poised, gaze practically _begging_ for Bart to play along. Oh. _Oh_ , he realized.

 

“Bart Allen. Nephew of Jay Garrick and heir to the _Allen Family Fortune._ ” Bart backed up a foot or two, hands placed keenly on his hips and a smile across his face. “Though you know something about that, _don’t you_ , Mister Wayne? Oh wait— _spoilers._ ” Oops.

 

An ebony eyebrow raised a tenth of a degree, but aside from that, _Tim Drake_ and Robin might as well have been two different people.

 

The kid next to Robin—a tall blond with a thick pair of glasses, stabbed one of his poles into the ground and snorted. “ _Wayne_ is right. We’re all from Gotham City. Tim scored a free trip to a ski resort with his scholarship money from WayneTech. Of all places, he chose _Kansas._ ”

 

“Kansas isn’t that bad.” This time, Tim smirked, mischievous and even a bit playful. Bart blinked three times, disbelieving. There was no _way_ this was the same person. “You never know, Ives, we could be taken to Oz at any moment.”

 

“Looks like we’ve already met a munchkin.” An wry smile spread across the guy’s lips. Not that it mattered—Bart kept eye contact with his teammate, who seemed to oblige with staring him down. “You can call me Ives. And that’s Ariana, if you’re interested. Unless you’re still putting finger prints all over Tim’s face—”

 

“I get compared to a flying monkey a lot.” Bart split into a grin, flashing both the pretty girl and the boy a smile. Fortunately unlike most of his classmates, Ives and Ariana didn’t cast him off as the class oddball. Plus, the 8th Grade trip just got a lot more interesting. “You and me, Rob— _Robert—Tim_ —Robert-Tim—that’s your name, isn’t it? Tim stands for _Robertim_ these days, right? I could see you as a Bertie—or a Bert, all you’re missing is an Ernie— _we should hang out._ ”

 

Something flickered in Tim’s eyes. There was something about his demeanor that drew Bart in—something so familiar, he couldn’t place it. The part of him that had spent most of his life in the future could spot the tiny hiccups in Tim’s poise, but it was the impulsive side he’d gathered that didn’t care. He was happy to _finally_ run into someone that was actually _interesting._ (Well, boring on hero standards, but only semi-less boring on civilian-statistics.)

 

Suddenly, the elder teen turned his head and his eyes faced the ski lodge. “I think your classmates are checking in over there.”

 

“What?”

 

“You’re on a field trip, right?”

 

“Right. _Right._ ” And suddenly, Robin was no longer crashing the mode for Bart. The younger teen made a face, tugging the Sherpa hat over his ears. Once again backing away, Bart made a steady path toward the lodge—and turned his head. “But we’re gonna hang out, right?”

 

As good-natured as this Tim Drake seemed, Bart couldn’t help his curiosity. It was kind of cool looking at cautious, _quietquietquiet_ Robin be this outgoing, charismatic being. Fascinating—and eerie. “We’ll hang out.”

 

Robin’s promise invigorated him. Bart sprinted back to the lodge where he took attendance with the rest of his classmates and dropped off his suitcase in his room. His roommate was a blond kid named Preston—who admittedly, was pretty cool. Preston wanted to capture everyone on film with some retro camera-recording thing. To stay on Jay’s good side, Bart made friends and chatted with both Preston and this cool girl named Carol. She kind of reminded him of Batgirl and Robin combined.

 

As soon as Jay gave the _‘okay_ ’ to ski, the small teen rushed to find Tim Drake—who, surprisingly was not that far. Bart grinned as Tim Drake yelped, and he hooked arms with the taller teen. “Robertim’s going to be my partner!”

 

Jay looked between both boys, clearly surprised Bart managed some sort of social grace. The man inspected his group of kids and rubbed his chin. “Well, I suppose it’s alright, given we have an odd number of students. Are you alright with that, um…son?”

 

“Tim,” Robin offered, a pained sigh rattling from his lips. Still, he smiled eloquently like the model teenage boy.  “And no, sir. I don’t mind. I’d be…ecstatic.”

 

Behind them, Ariana and Ives exchanged looks—either amused or confused, just like Bart’s mentor. _Confusement_ , Bart decided. If Nightwing could get away with wordplay, then so could he.

 

He grinned to the elder teen. “ _Crash._ ”

 

They worked their way to the chairlifts. Bart flopped around, still annoyed he had to exchange his tennis shoes for clunky planks of wood, but at least there was a familiar presence. He spent the time complaining about the pointlessness of snow while Tim wholeheartedly listened like the good friend he was. Once they were two feet off the ground, Bart switched gears.

 

“Of all the places you could have chosen as a random vacation spot, you chose _Kansas_?” The speedster’s amusement teemed through his voice.

 

As he expected, that good, boy-next-door personality evaporated—much sterner like Nightwing’s, yet still clearly Robin. That was who Tim Drake was though— _Robin._ “That’s why they call it _random_.” If anything were more hysterical, Bart swore Robin’s cheeks were pink with embarrassment.

 

This could have been the first time someone saw _Robin_ as Tim Drake outside of the heroing world. And no doubt, Bart could have mistaken the guy as two different people.

 

“What were the chances we’d run into each other?” muttered the darker-haired boy, almost so quiet Bart couldn’t hear. Actually—he suddenly wondered if Robin intended for Bart to hear that at all.

 

“Better than you’d think. I’m fast, remember?” Bart waddled one of his fingers, mockingly hoping that it translated as cool. “We have just as much a chance meeting up in the Bermuda Triangle as we do here. Maybe even better.”

 

If it was possible to look less thrilled, then Robin did it. However, the other teen’s eyes held just as much levelness as before. They were just as honest, so akin to the personality Robin had with Ives and Ariana that Bart had to rethink his earlier conclusion. Robin and Tim Drake both did a good job compartmentalizing.

 

How much of Robin was Tim Drake, and how much was pure _Robin_?

 

The said teen next to Bart obviously had more practice in acting. Go figure, seeing how he was Batman’s _partner_ , but it was definitely scary. Scarier than keeping an eye on Blue Beetle before he could turn evil.

 

Moments later, Bart couldn’t help but blurt, “You’ve got a great smile. You should do it more often.”

 

To his surprise Robin said nothing return. His jaw tightened, the red in his cheeks darkening, and the taller teen slowly turned his head to meet Bart’s gaze. Then, he turned away and looked at the slopes without a word.

 

Bart blinked. “You alright there, _Robertim?”_ No response. He nudged his shoulder into Robin’s half-good naturedly, half-experimentally. “You’re not regretting sitting next to me, are you?”

 

The Boy Wonder said nothing. _Ouch._

 

“ _Wow_ , awkward. You’re not suddenly gonna break up with me, say ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ and reveal you never like me to begin with like all the romcoms, are you?” With each word, Bart’s playful mockery disappeared into actual curiosity. He sobered, the enthusiasm evaporating in his tone and eyebrows furrowed together. _“Super ouch._ ” Still, no response. “Okay, the silent treatment. Joan says I’m tactless, but _that’s_ just rude. Well, fine. I don’t have anything nice to say, so I won’t say anything at _all._ Nothing. Zilch. Nada.” Bart crossed his arms dutifully and glared beneath them.

 

They were tens of feet in the air, with only cold white heaps to great them. The wind whistled loudly in their ears, howling and humming a grating melody in all the ways Bart hated. And again, Bart Allen was moded.

 

“If you’re not going to talk to me,” he continued, “then I’m not going to talk to you. It’s only fair.”

 

He was ready to give up when seconds later, a smile fell across Robin’s face. Mirthful and sardonic. Bart’s eyes narrowed.

 

“Is something funny? ‘Cause…I’m totally interested.”

 

“You.”

 

“ _Me?”_

A quiet breath fell from Tim’s lips. He turned his head slightly to meet Bart’s gaze, finally, and grimaced. “It’s not that I don’t like you, Bart. I just…” Robin fell silent again and shrugged a shoulder almost dismissively. “You and me. We’re not Dick and Wally. I just… _don’t_ see you and me having that kind of relationship.”

 

Bart blinked. Oh. He took the words with stun.

 

Of course, he knew what kind of relationship Robin meant immediately. Dick and Wally’s friendship was practically famous in the superhero community. Sure, all of Young Justice’s founders were famous too, but it was Dick and _Wally._ Bats and Flashes got along. If Bart really thought about it, Robin and he should have fallen in the same category too. But they didn’t.

 

Wally grew up the same way Dick did—right by his mentor’s side and into something else. Tim probably did that weird-Bat thing too, just like Dick, but Bart was…an infiltrator. One that crashed the party for a completely different circumstance.

 

“You don’t see us as friends,” Bart translated, the words coming back to him. His voice tightened. Tim shrugged, looking guilty and uncomfortable.

 

“You never seemed interested.”

 

That struck a nerve. Bart didn’t know why, but that response bothered him more than it should have. Before he had the chance to respond, they finally reached the top of the slope. Tim dismounted with natural grace, poles striking into the snow. He turned his head to the side, an apologetic look coming to his features.

 

“Hey.” Bart dropped from the chairlift and stumbled through mushy snow. _Urgh._ “We’re friends though, right? Robin?”

 

If it wasn’t already a kick in the stomach, Robin hesitated with his answer. “Yeah.” _But not buddies. Not amigos. Not hombres._ The taller teen shifted uncomfortably between his feet, his silence far too loud. “I’ll see you at the bottom, okay?”

 

Bart swallowed hard, hands tight on his poles. “Okay.”

 

With that, Robin jumped down the trail, leaving the speedster to his thoughts.

 

Later that night Bart was back with his classmates—and not in a good mood. He pushed his food side-to-side on his plate, never hungry when he was frustrated. Preston babbled about the good footage he managed to capture of people (except for Bart, who’d been preoccupied with other things) and Bart pretended to listen. He was ready to throw his food away and “call it a night,” so he could bug _someone._ Maybe Wally, if he wasn’t doing a secret-spend-the-night-at-Dick’s like he usually did.

 

Carol tapped him on the shoulder. “What happened to Tim, Bart?”

 

“Tim?” Snapping out of his thoughts, Bart took his arm out of his mashed potatoes (skillfully placed there after sulking gloomily) and grumbled under his breath. He glared at his silverware and scowled. “Oh. _Rob—Robertim._ Yeah, he’s lame. He doesn’t think I’m interesting.”

 

A grin quirked across Preston’s face. “You? Not interesting? Wasn’t it last week you found out about instant noodles?”

 

“Maybe. But they still take _forever_ to make.” Bart crossed his arms and turned his attention to the window. Next to him, Carol and Preston did their usual thing of exchanging looks. “I just don’t understand why— _holdonaminute._ ” Bart blinked.

 

Both his friends turned their heads toward the window too, with the speedster doing a double take. Preston scratched his head. “Um…Bart, what are you looking at—”

 

“Coverformeokay?” Bart jumped to his feet and pulled on his jacket. He turned to the pair of teenagers—the ones part of his _normal_ life and grinned almost maniacally. “Tell Jay that I went to the restroom ‘cause—‘cause—”

 

“Because the meatloaf was bad?” Carol guessed. She arched an eyebrow.

 

“Yeah!” Sure, he could have sworn Preston suddenly whispered they weren’t _eating_ meatloaf, but he didn’t care. Bart sneaked out of the cafeteria as Jay busied himself with other chaperoning parents and dispensed his uniform from his ring.

 

In a matter of seconds, Impulse stood in the place of Bart Allen. The Fastest Teen Alive ricocheted through the large building away from the cafeteria, through the halls into the lobby and out the door. He ran to the back—straight past whatever bad guy Robin was stalking and into the line of fire.

 

“What the—” Robin, decked out in his uniform and everything, shouted loudly in disarray. Bart caught each bullet with precision and tossed them aside, eyes adjusting to the speed of each and every one and a grin tingling at his lips in excitement.

 

A loud strangled curse echoed through the night from the tall man yards away from the pair of heroes. The man was tall, twice their size in a long trench coat and fists larger than Bart’s _head._ He was bald— _man_ , was his head _shiny_ —with tufts of murky red hair on either side of his face and held a scowl that would have put Dr. Eggman to shame.

 

Bart couldn’t help it. He was _buzzing_. “Man, _bullets_? That is so _retro_ of you.”

 

“What are you _doing_ here?” Of course, the enthusiasm lacked from Robin’s voice. Impulse spared his teammate a quick glance—Robin stared back, demeanor broken and irritated. The man on the other side of them cursed loudly in a heavy accent.

 

He growled and shot the gun again.

 

“Look out!” Before Bart realized what was happening, Robin forced both of them to the ground, burying them in a trench of snow. Bullets howled into the air like wolves and hissed against the winter air.

 

Snow lodged itself in Bart’s throat and he choked until the sounds evaporated. When he looked back up, he was a foot-deep in cold white heaps with the Boy Wonder flat against his body and squeezing him to the bone. Hazy white puffs exploded from the taller hero’s lips and fogged up Bart’s visor.

 

Robin cursed. “He got away.”

 

Huh. Oh, right—“Man, you could be a _wrestler_. You like, tackled me right to the ground like a pro! Have you ever pig-wrestled? I heard that’s fun—I asked Superboy that and he said that a pig stabbed him in the eye once and if you look really closely he’s got the mark—”

 

He was cut off as Robin plucked him from the ground and brushed the snow off his own armor. Impulse blinked, rubbing the cold out of his goggles to get a better look at the _very annoyed_ Boy Wonder, and couldn’t help his own frown. He sobered, realizing the severity of the situation.

 

“So who was that?” Bart asked, knowing anything other than the current circumstance wouldn’t have kept Robin’s attention.

 

The other teen bit the inside of his mouth, finally looking to the speedster. That only annoyed Bart more—Robin was _trying_ to withhold information from him. “His name is Piotr Vilk. He stole the micro-processor off an old computer a few days ago. I…tried to stop him in Gotham, but…”

 

“Failed?”

 

“ _Got offput._ ”

 

“Whatever.” Impulse snorted—then he realized the issue. “ _Wait, wait, wait._ Hold the phone, _hombre._ You’re telling me you’re here on a _mission_?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“And you didn’t _tell me_? On _my turf_?” The new knowledge made Bart slow down. He whirled around, a frown falling across his lips and the earlier irritation bubbling in his stomach again.

 

Beneath the lenses, Bart had no doubt the other teen was rolling his eyes. Not only that, but Robin was frustrated. He was _never_ one to compromise the mission, even when it went horribly wrong. He looked to the brunet pointedly, while starting into a trail left by Vilk. “You were the one that asked why a kid like me would pick a place like here. There’s your answer.”

 

“Fair enough.” _Zip._ “Letmegowithyouthen.”

 

Boy Wonder and speedster stood a foot away from each other, one smug and the other irate. Bart puffed his chest out and raised his head, hoping to look twice his usual height. The edge of his lip curled into a smug grin and— _finally_ , Robin sighed.

 

“Fine. But you follow _my_ lead. Okay?”

 

“Right!CoolI’llscoutahead—”

 

_“Impulse—”_

Ten minutes of walking got them nowhere. Bart remembered his suit, but not his comm.-link. It would have been so much _easier_ to just carry Robin—but when he suggested that, he didn’t get a response. (Really, he was getting tired of classmates and friends alike joking they’d “crush him like a twig” given he ever carried them.) While everyone else in health class learned about the _changes_ and stuff that happened to their body, Bart hoped the fact he was so small wasn’t so… _obvious._

Being scrawny in the 2050s really wasn’t a problem. Not when you were still considered pretty healthy compared to everyone else.

 

“Is that…normal?” Robin asked after another ten minutes of silence.

 

Impulse snapped out of his thoughts and looked to the teen curiously. He scratched his head. “Uh… _what’s_ normal?”

 

A black gauntlet waved in Bart’s direction, complimenting the hesitant look on the elder teen’s face. “The…humming.”

 

“The humming? I _hum_ —? Oh, I guess I do.” Thinking back to his family, Impulse zipped around Robin twice, creating circles in the snow. He placed hands on his hips and smiled as he shrugged. “I mean, _yeah_ , I _guess._ Told you—we Allens can’t keep still. It’s like. If you put a cheetah in a dog’s kennel.”

 

“Cheetahs can’t fit in dog kennels.”

 

“Sure they can, if it’s a really _big_ dog. I dunno—pretty sure that’s new.” Like a child, Bart raised his arms and inspected them for some hidden trick. He turned around, keeping track of his own body and shrugged. A good part of his life had been spent with a collar around his neck—some abilities came naturally to Bart and others he was still trying to figure out.

 

“No, it’s not.”

 

“What?”

 

Coming back to present time, Robin made a face and took lead toward their destination. Bart blinked, taking in the sight of Batman’s partner with confusion and toddled after him. “You say something, Rob?”

 

“No.” Robin kept walking.

 

“Oh. Well, alright then I guess.” Making a face at the teen’s back, he followed after him in silence. For the moment, anyway.

 

They got as far as a kilometer and a half with Bart chatting about nothing in particular. The night sky was dark— _annoying—_ and the further they went, snow fell in thicker heaps. Soon it’d be too thick for Bart to run in—something he didn’t want Robin to take note on. When Bart stressed, he got _chatty._

Once they climbed a hill, the landscape concaved into a small valley, trees gone and cleared out. The snow fell over three buildings. The two heroes tucked themselves beneath a heap of snow as a collection of goons exited one building in rows of threes.

 

“You think that’s part of the ski lodge?” Impulse mused. His eyes narrowed, plucking out one form in particular. Poitr Vilk stood in the center of the orderly affairs, talking to another man who looked in charge of the goons. “There’s our guy. Was he always holding that suitcase?”

 

“He was talking to them earlier today.” From the corner of his eye, the brunet saw his teammate with a pair of binoculars. Robin cocked his head from the scene, finger pressed to his comm.-link. “Can you pull up some data, Alfred?”

 

“ _Alfred_?” Bart repeated. He zipped to the other side of their mount when the snow got too cold. “That sounds like the name of a _butler._ ”

 

“You’d be surprised.” The corner of Robin’s lip raised upward, though for whatever reason, the shorter teen wasn’t quite sure. Robin placed fingers on his comm. again, head raised high. “Thanks Alfred. His name’s George Deegan. He’s the leader of a secret militia group called _White Heat._ Wanted criminal. Looks like… _Vilk is giving the suitcase to Deegan?_ ”

 

“Bad news,” Bart clarified. He went to stand to his feet, but was immediately pulled back down by the arm.

 

Robin looked him directly in the eye, frown tight across his lips. “ _Super_ bad news. Alfred says our orders are to go back and wait for Batman—”

 

“ _Lame_ that’snotfun.” _ZIP!_

_“Wait!”_

Right—one of those weird words that never suited Bart’s personality. He torpedoed down the hill, praying to whatever god was in control of feet-to-ground traction and darted through the line of henchmen. The first guy was easy—he landed a fist to man #1’s face and straddled him over the ground. Others crowded around them, shouting curses and words in foreign languages too thick for Impulse to hear.

 

He elbowed the man in the nose, then dodged when one of them lunged for him with the intent to hit the brunet over the head with his gun. “ _Sheesh_ —how come bad guys forget they can _shoot_ a gun when someone goes by? You have a better chance shooting me with a _bullet_ than actually grabbing m— _hey!_ ”

 

In his defense, Impulse was doing pretty good. He made goon #2 and #3 bump heads and collapse on each other, then attempted to swing around #2’s rifle. That thing was _massive._ Before he had the chance to drag it across the ground and spell out his name in cursive, assailant #4 yanked him by the back of his uniform. This one was bigger—at least _twice_ Captain Marvel’s width, arms bulging with veins and muscles; all the gross whatnot weird body builders had.

 

Worst off, he choked Bart from behind. The brunet stifled, swinging two feet above the ground with fat fingers pressed against his skin. #4 breathed raunchy puffs of air in Bart’s line of vision and bared his teeth. “What’s a little _dandelion like you_ doing out in the field?”

 

“Oh—” _Choke._ “You know—” _Choke._ “Growing out of the snow like a daisy!” _Choke._ The air squeezed out of his lungs. Bart struggled out of the grip, nails digging into the man’s hands, but it was _pointless._

 

From the corner of his eye, Vilk and Deegan exchanged looks. They smirked, demeanor matching the thug that had a grip on Bart’s neck and slowly, Vilk came forward, gaze narrowing at the speedster. “So there were _two_ of you that were following me.”

 

“Yougonnarambleonaboutyourmasterplanoryougonnaletmedieinpeace?” Bart made a face and gasped, a low cry of pain scraping out of his throat. He winced, feet dangling and vision dangerously departing.

 

Vilk’s smirk deteriorated into a low sneer. “Put him on the ground.”

 

“ _Oof_!” Air burned in Bart’s lungs as he face planted. He clawed the snow, then clutched his throat, where the imprints throbbed on their own. Behind him registered the solid _click_ of a gun—and when Bart turned around, it was aimed at his face. Vilk first, the cold metal against Bart’s flesh, followed by twenty militiamen who were ready to murder him.

 

_Crap._

 

“This…is one of those moments where youwishyoulistenedtotheguyincharge,” Bart grumbled offhandedly.

 

“We can’t afford any… _petty_ distractions.” Deegan raised his head, eyes narrowing in disgust at the speedster. “Kill him.”

 

 _Crapcrapcrap—_ Robin.

 

“AGHHH!” A thug to the left fell to the ground, voice ripping in pain from a hit upside the head. Robin darted through the crowd, bo stick jutted out and taking down anyone in itspath. Both Deegan and Vilk shouted profanities too quiet to hear over the sudden uproar, clearly not expecting the ambush and immediately, Impulse rotated his body to return to his feet. He dragged himself to Robin’s side, forcing his feet to find _some_ traction and massaged his bruising neck.

 

“What,” Vilk shouted loudly, voice echoing, “do you have an entire _brigade_ here for me, _Boy Wonder?”_

The chills that passed once both Vilk and Robin locked eyes were _excruciating._ Bart caught his breath, still trying to shake off being nearly crushed to death, and watched the other teen’s face twist in anger, frustration, exasperation— _everything_ that looked like he was ready to kill someone. Followed by an oddly placed smirk that came _too_ naturally to Robin’s face.

 

“Bats don’t fly alone. Neither do robins.” The grip around Robin’s bo staff tightened and he inched closer to his teammate, jaw tight.

 

“You’re kidding, right?” whispered the speedster under his breath, voice pitched and nervous.

 

“Lying through my freaking teeth for you,” Robin snapped back, voice even quieter. “Now shut up.” He turned his attention back to Vilk and Deegan, stance taller than it was before and sneered at the men at the edge of their arena. “What do you intend to do with that micro processor Vilk gave you?”

 

“ _Micro_? Have you seen the size of that suitcase?” A brown eyebrow quirked in the air beneath goggles and Impulse placed hands on either side of his hips. “Nothing in there is actually _micro._ ”

 

“Shut _up_ , Impulse.” Robin gritted his teeth.

 

“Right. Uh—shutting up.” Besides—the men looked less in a joking mood now that Robin entered the battlefield. Each of them held scowls that were ten times more intimidating than before—which, hello, _kinda offensive._ Bart was just as lethal as Robin was—

 

“We don’t have time to play around with _little kids._ ”  Deegan backed away at once, his hand white against the handle of the suitcase. He turned his head to his foot soldiers and directed his free hand to the pair. “Get rid of them. _Now._ ”

 

“Sir!”

 

It took less than five seconds for the minions to jump. Not all of them were an easy KO like Bart’s first man—he dodged as one lunged for him and hissed in pain as a second man yanked him by the arm and flung him into the snow. Robin managed to create a distance between the men that went after him, then quickly elbowed one in the stomach.

 

“You take the ten on the left, I take the ten on the right?” Bart called loudly. He spun around a trio of guards, hiking his speed and feeling the energy unfold in his calves. Blankets of snow lifted from the ground into a cyclone. The men cried out in fear, instinctively dropping their weapons and rebounding into different directions. “Sound good, _Doc_?”

 

“Perfect, _McFly_.” Robin grabbed a man four times his size by the arm and flung the thug over his shoulder. Wow—that was _crazy._ “Move!”

 

“Gotcha!” Something about Robin’s forms made it _easy_ to work well. Bart maneuvered around the Boy Wonder effortlessly each time a henchman shot in their direction. They’d been on missions together, but _never_ had they needed to mix calibers. When Tim threw, Bart ducked, and when Bart assaulted, Tim lunged out of the way. It made him think back to…

 

To Red Robin and Nightwing, of his ti—

 

He was cut off before he could finish that thought. One glance in the direction of the two mega-baddies and he caught sight of the grenade within Deegan’s grasp. Bart darted off from the direction of one of the thugs and quickly locked arms with Robin. “Wegottamove— _now_!”

 

The other teen whirled his head, gaze contorted in bewilderment—“Explosive—!”

 

_BOOOOOM_

There was no way to tell where exactly the grenade landed—Impulse had pulled Robin out of the line of fire toward the cliff they’d come from. The grenade hit the snow nearest to them, the disarray deafening to their ears. Impulse changed his footing in effort to ricochet in a different direction, but skidded across the snow with nothing to catch his feet. Robin toppled over him, both boys crying out in pain.

 

The last thing Bart remembered was his teammate covering him, cape and all as the snow pounded the ground. He curled into himself, knees against his chest and hands against his ears. Great. _Great, great, **great.**_

 

When the avalanche finally stopped, Bart tested out moving his arm. No good—he was knotted tightly with Robin’s own limbs.  “ _Errghhh._ Just what we need. _More snow!_ ”

 

“Yeah, well—” Robin moved his arm with as little success as the speedster. He angled his arm, carefully removing a flashlight from his belt and pressing an elbow into their trap. The light shined blindly in Bart’s direction. “We wouldn’t have been in this situation if we listened to _orders_.”

“ _Please._ You stopped listening to orders once you let me come along.” Bart fidgeted and crossed his arms. He trembled, feeling ice as it dug into him.

 

“That may have been the problem.”

 

“What?”

 

“Nothing.”

 

“No— _not_ nothing.” Wriggling until he got a better angle, the shorter teen crawled onto Robin and pushed the flashlight out of the way. His demeanor twisted into a frown, irritation burning in his gaze. “Dude, what is your _problem_ with me _anyway_? You looked _less_ than thrilled to see me, you totally blew me off at the chairlifts, and now you keep _mumbling_ things under your breath like a weirdo. It’s weird!”

 

Robin wrinkled his nose and sighed, finally giving in. “It’s not that I have a _problem_ with you, Impulse—”

 

“Uh, _no_ , you totally do. This is the most you’ve talked since I’ve _met_ you and I’m _not_ liking what I’ve been hearing. I mean, _sheesh_ , you try to hang out with a guy in the lamest, only-est ski resort in Kansas and he turns you down. We could have gotten cookies, you know. _Cookies._ ”

 

“That’s it. That’s _why._ ”

 

“What? Cookies? Because that’s a terrible reason—”

 

“ _Bart._ ” Before the brunet could say anymore, Robin forced a hand over the shorter teen’s lips. He rolled his eyes beneath his mask, head raised high for some divine god to shoot the both of them, and sighed again in dishevelment. “I can’t tell what you’re thinking.”

 

Slowly he removed his hand from Impulse’s lips, with Robin gauging the teen for a reaction. Fortunately this was a time the brunet decided to keep his mouth shut.

 

“You came here, ten months ago just… _crashing the circumstances_ like you do. And at first…yeah, I was a little curious on what you were going to do. You held the Flash family at a high standard, and I _wondered_ if we were going to be friends like Nightwing and Wally. But then you made friends with Jaime instead.” Robin bit the inside of his mouth, searching around for his flashlight again. “And so that was that. But…even before everything was out in the open, I could sort of see those cues you made.”

 

“Cues,” Bart repeated. He blinked slowly.

 

“You said yourself you became friends with Blue Beetle so that you could prevent him from becoming a dictator in your time. The way you moved, the way you gestured—some part of it seemed forced. Then for some reason, all of it just started coming _naturally_ to you. Like right now, you being a hothead.” Robin gestured to him and a moment later, his cheeks glowed an bothered shade of pink. “After the Reach was chased off Earth, I just…never thought you’d be interested in being friends.”

 

“You mean you never tried.” Impulse’s eyes narrowed to the teen in front of him. He crawled in what little space they had and planted himself right next to his teammate. “We’re _teammates_ but we never became friends. We just took out half the meat out there—you do realize that, don’t you? You can be friends with me and we can be teammates.”

 

The corner of Robin’s lip twitched, clear that he wanted to say something but without a clear explanation of _what._ “I’m not…one to let my personal life and Robin mix. It wouldn’t work out for me if I did. I had to lie to my dad about what this trip was about just to go.”

 

“That is so _lame._ ” Bart couldn’t believe what he was hearing—he would have _killed_ for Robin’s double life in the future. At least then he was worth more than just a piece of meat for the Reach to expend. 

 

“You spent over a _month_ trying to do the same thing.”

 

“Yeah. Because no one likes the downer who mentions post-apocalyptic world at the party, hermano.” Impulse pointed his finger accusingly to the other teen’s chest and glared. “You’re _Tim Drake!_ Robin, the Boy Wonder! You were the Robin that figured out who the _original_ Batman and Robin were when no one else could. You know why you and the rest of the Bats are so amazing?

 

“You _don’t_ have some extraordinary ability like shapeshifting or superspeed or like, the ability to conjure hotdogs with your eyes. You take a _stand_ with the power of endurance and self-perseverance. I spent most of my life in a collar that cut off who I was, and when I outgrew that one, they slapped another one around my neck. I didn’t even get _out_ of that until some guy like _you_ came along.”  

 

“Me?”

 

“No, no—some guy named Red Robin and a younger Nightwing in that time. Whatever. Dude, you’re way too tense. Always _orders, orders, orders._ Nightwing’s always telling us that not everything goes according to plan—exhibit A—me coming to the past and having you guys figure out I had a weird motive. Exhibit B—me here. With you.” Bart’s expression calmed and he smiled sympathetically. “You’re a _great_ leader, man. You’re just too down on yourself asking, ‘What would _Robin_ do’ instead of, ‘Oh _god_ , I got myself in a tizzy. How do _I_ get out of it?’”

 

“ _Tizzy_.”

 

“Yeah. That thing you get into when you mess things up.”

 

Robin made a sound, pressing a hand to his head and clutching his flashlight with the other one. “Why does that make sense?”

 

“Hmmm. I think Jaime said the same thing to me when I gave him girl advice last weekend.”

 

“Right.” The taller teen’s lips quirked into a wry smile. Though their conversation came to a silent hiccup, the smile remained on his face, and due to the flashlight in the background, Bart became very aware that the grin was directed at _him._

 

“What?” The brunet pressed a hand to his face. “I got a twig sticking out of my hair or something?”

 

“No. This… _act._ ” Robin made a gesture, directing it to the whole of Bart. “You started out as this quirky speedster from the future, but it…kind of became you. This…smile. And the way you talk.”

 

Oh. Bart looked away, feeling the heat in his own cheeks. He was never sure when the lost twelve-year-old boy who left the future and Nathaniel and Red Robin disappeared to this guy who looked forward to hanging out with his friends and dinners with his grandparents. The change of lifestyle was subtle—gradual. And moments like this, where the edge of his personality touched that of another, always made it scarily apparent how different he was becoming.

 

“Like I said—” His voice cracked. “—no one likes the guy that modes the crash.”

 

“It suits you.”

 

“Th…thanks.” Bart twitched, body beginning to vibrate with him nervously. He turned as red as his suit, eyebrows furrowed together. “So. Um. Was that a Back to the Future reference earlier?”

 

Robin snorted. “Should have been. Since you were the one that started it.”

 

 _“Please._ Wally and I watched all the movies while Grandma Iris was in labor.” Bart crossed his legs and looked up. “I have them with me. You should totally sneak over and watch them with me and Preston.”

 

Robin smiled. “I’d like that.”

 

“Crash. Now to get out of there.” He fidgeted, crawling around their tiny hole and pressing up against the rooftop with his palms. Gritting his teeth, he bit back a whine against the cold. “And figure out what the heck Deegan and Vilk are planning.” He grimaced, hands scraping against ice. “I _hate_ the snow.”

 

“Normally under an impact like that a person would be crushed by the weight of the snow.” Robin made a face, following Bart’s line of sight with his flashlight. “But somehow _we_ managed to carve a rabbit hole in it. I…think your vibrating has something to do with it.”

 

“Wait, wait, wait. You saying I carved through the snow doing absolutely nothing?” Bart cocked his head incredulously.

 

Beneath the mask, he was sure Robin was trying not to roll his eyes again. This time, most of it was in good humor. Robin stretched his limbs, closing in on what little space they had between them before resting flat on his belly. “Yeah. Imagine what damage you could do if you actually _tried._ Can you do your thing?”

 

“Uh, _duh._ Holdonstaybackthere.” Mimicking his teammate’s actions, Bart felt the charge of energy in his bones. He spiraled like a drill, dividing the snow with ease. Reminders of what Barry, Jay, _and_ Wally told him to do whenever stuck in a cold terrain surfaced in his mind and—wow, he never thought Wally’s advice could be worth something.

 

Breaking the surface of the snow, Bart gasped for air and climbed out of the hole. He reached down, extending a hand to the Boy Wonder and matched grins. After pulling the other teen up, he shook off the leftover snow, twigs, and leaves stuck in his hair. “ _That_ was fun.”

 

“Good.” Robin frowned, turning their attention back to the three shacks from earlier. The snow had turned into a full-out blizzard, covering up whatever tracks Deegan, Vilk, and their goons had left and leaving the entire place abandoned. “Can you—?”

 

“Got it.” _Woosh!_ Impulse scouted the area— _twice._ Each building, up stairs, down hallways and still, nothing. He met Robin in the center of the landscape, lips contorted into a frown and shook his head. “Nada. Did a mile-radius check, too. This place is completely abandoned.”

 

Robin cursed. He pressed a finger to his comm.-link and sighed with frustration. “Looks like the signal’s jammed, too. I can’t get a hold of anyone.”

 

“And the snow’s getting too deep.” Impulse jumped, the balls of his feet burying into the ground. “I could take you back, but it’d take a while.”

 

“We’re not going back.”

 

Bart blinked rapidly, staring at the other teen incredulously. He scratched his head and placed both hands on his hips. “You’d finish this mission with me?”

 

“You bring out the… _impulsive_ side of me. And that’s…not as bad as I make it out to be.” For a moment, Robin’s mission-face broke. The first thought that came to mind was the fact that it was pure _Tim._ The taller teen turned his head. “They couldn’t have gotten that far in the snow. Two men and twenty foot soldiers. If Deegan is as big of a villain as Alfred says, this must have just been a meeting spot.”

 

“Pretty sure there may be an old abandoned base down here.” Bart scratched his head, hopping two feet in front of Robin. “My teacher rambled something about it before the trip. I didn’t really pay attention because—” He cut himself off.

 

“Because what?”

 

“Nothingimportant.” Squinting, Bart whirled around, gaze fixed on the mountains behind them. “Mount Crockett, I think. Some cheesy rumor mentioned there may still be some old weapons over there. Maybe some nukes.” He pointed to the highest peak and frowned.

 

“If it’s as abandoned as you say, they may use the microprocessor to open up the front door. The tech may be too out of date to get in easily. _Finally_ , something that makes sense.” The elder teen broke into a run with Bart following in suit. “We’ll have to get in there before they end up causing an international conflict.”

 

“Right. You’re as good as the history books say you are.” Bart quirked a friendly eyebrow and looked to Tim from the corner of his eye. “You and I made a crash team back there, Doc.”

 

“You’re right, McFly.” Tim grinned back, clearly less tense than before. Partly because the mystery had finally been solved and hopefully because Bart and he were finally comfortable enough to call each other friends. “But we _were_ teammates before that. We’d be stupid not to know each other’s strengths and weaknesses.”

 

“Really? Because I was pretty much snowballing it back there.” The brunet came close enough to elbow Tim in the ribcage. He still didn’t know why, but there was something familiar with the way Tim moved, which had nothing to do with being teammates since February.

 

To his surprise, they both burst out into short snickers and continued on their path. It would have taken a normal person at least twice the time it took them to cross through the trail. Halfway through their venture, Impulse grabbed Robin by the arm and yanked him through the snow.

 

Just like the shacks, Deegan and Vilk’s hideout was at the base of a mountain— _Mount Crockett_ , Bart assumed. The entrance was a ten-foot tall metal door, cold from its time without  Tim and he crouched at a cliff adjacent to the area, gaze locked on the soldiers as they awaited entry. Alongside each henchman was a snowmobile and if possible, there seemed to be more goons than before.

 

Impulse hummed appreciatively. “Didn’t think we’d catch up to them so fast.”

 

“Helps when you’ve got a speedster dragging you across the snow.” Tim returned to his set of binoculars. “Looks like we were right. I think they’re planning on using the snowmobiles to transport the old materials to a new hideout. _Again._ ”

 

The door opened with an eerie moan, and seconds later the soldiers mounted their bikes and filed down through the entrance. Slowly by threes, they came back with complicated tech strapped to the ends of their bike.

 

“You got a rope?” Impulse asked suddenly.

 

“Always.” Without looking, the elder teen reached into one of his compartments and pulled out a wind of string. He turned his head curiously to Bart and was met with a smirk. “What do you plan on doing?”

 

“Stalling.” Bart gathered to his feet and sprinted to the cluster of trees nearest to the bad guys. He tied each end of the rope quickly to each trunk and darted out of the way. Just as he suspected, the men on the snowmobiles collided with the rope, all shouting out in surprise and toppling over like bowling pins.  (TV really did an accurate job depicting these lame-os.)

 

More without snowmobiles exited the base without snowmobiles to inspect the ruckus. Once they caught sight of Impulse, all went charging toward him. Bart flashed a good-natured grin and waved in their direction. “Hey boys! Care for a rematch?”

 

“You little ingrate!” cursed one of them. He lunged toward the speedster, who dodged with natural grace and landed beautifully on his feet.

 

Tim took the moment to drop down on the group of minions. He swiped one with his bo stick, then kneed another in the stomach. “ _Sorry_. He’s with me.”

 

“And _he’s_ with me!” Bart spun around a trio of men like earlier, creating a cyclone of snow and lifting them from the ground. They rebounded in different directions, shouting profanities that definitely were not kid friendly. Skidding to a halt, Impulse tripped over ice and face-planted into Tim. “Oof!”

 

“Whoa—” Tim stumbled, managing to grab the speedster before both of them toppled into the ground.

 

“Uh,” Bart grinned nervously, hands on either side of Tim as he turned around. “Sorry.”

 

“No problem.” The Boy Wonder’s eyes darted from the goons as they recovered from the blows. “I’m gonna go inside and stop Deegan and Vilk. You think you can handle things out here?”

 

“ _No problemo,_ Robertim.” Bart started on the thugs nearest to the door, creating an easy path for Tim to pass. He tripped another goon before they could see him and tackled another one to the ground, straddling and punching the man all the same.

 

And just like before, someone four times his height plucked him from the ground, irritated, and scowled at him menacingly. This one had a fuzzy mustache and breath that smelled like garlic dip. “I’ve had just about _enough_ of you.”

 

“Yeah. You and the rest of this decade.” Bart snorted, a cocky grin spreading across his lips. He twisted his body until he was a spiral and vibrated—usually the vibrating freaked villains out. This one shouted, high-pitched and almost _feminine,_ and dropped the small teen to the ground. Bart turned around, landing in a crouch and kneed the last thug.

 

Right between the legs. This one let out a low, keening sound and clutched his crotch. He fell to the ground, tears in his eyes and moaning like a petty cat.

 

Bart grinned. “Note for the future: _wear a cup_ when you’re out on a super-baddy mission.”

 

That was that. The rest of the foot soldiers were either taken down by Tim or earlier by Bart. He grabbed the rope from before and rounded all of them together in the only knot he learned how to tie the week Jay signed Bart up to be a boy scout. He sauntered back, admiring his handiwork and placed both hands on his hips.

 

“Here’s a hint: if you ever wanna be on the winning side, don’t do the illegal things that could cause an international dispute.”

 

He heard one bad guy groan and bopped him over the head. Then, Bart rushed into the warehouse where five more minions were knocked out cold—along with Deegan and Vilk, who were handcuffed together and sitting next to the computer.

 

“Wow, you’re really good at this whole, ‘knock-everybody-out thing.’”  He found Tim at the mega-computer, promptly disregarding the blaring red lights and the erupting sound of an alarm. Robin was typing away on a computer which was—doing a countdown. Holy _crap._ “Whoa, whoa—is this entire thing going to _explode_?”

 

**“LAUNCH IN T-MINUS 4 MINUTES AND 32 SECONDS.”**

“It’s set to launch nuclear missiles. Deegan locked it so that I can’t get into it. _Dammit._ ” Tim cursed loudly and pounded his fists into the system. He gritted his teeth. “I saw five numbers, three letters, and two numbers. My holocomp can’t hack into the system fast enough to figure out the arrangement. In about four minutes, we’re going to go to war with Russia.”

 

“Move over.” Bart jerked around and placed himself in front of the keyboard. Instantly, his fingers flew to each button—five numbers, three digits, two numbers—“Fast is _right up my alley.”_

Robin flashed him a grim look. “You sure you can do this?”

“Of course! Um…One, one, one, one, one. A, A, A. One, One—”

 

**“RECALCULATING. RECALCULATING. LAUNCH IN TWO MINUTES, FIFTEEN SECONDS.”**

“Oops.”

“ _Impulse!_ ”

 

“I’m working on it!” Bart gritted his teeth, looking at the different keys and allowing his fingers to float through the motions. 11111AAA12, 1111AAA13—45123BCD7—“Man, you think we could confuse it or something? Likewithaparadoxorareallyweirdquestion? ‘What is love?’ ‘What is pi?’ What is—hey, what are you doing?”

 

“Keep typing! Gonna see if I can find a different way to stop it.” Tim fell to his feet, maneuvering scrapes and wires—

 

**“LAUNCHING IN TEN. NINE. EIGHT—”**

“Imp—”

 

“Relaxwe’vegotafewsecondsleft—” Bart lunged over the system, relaying every combination he’d already tried in his head. He was _close_ , he just _knew it—_ “I got it! I think this is the one!”

 

**“FIVE. FOUR. THREE. TWO—**

**“LAUNCH ABORTED. COUNTDOWN CANCELLED. SYSTEM AUTOMATIC RESET NOW.”**

“Crash! We _crashed the mode!_ ” Splitting into a grin, Bart turned to the side and met gazes with Tim, who looked ready to faint. Without even thinking, both teens fist-bumped. The brunet threw an arm around Tim’s shoulder and laughed. “Now, _that_ was fun.”

 

“Yeah. Thank _god._ ” The elder teen swallowed hard, looking paler than the snow.

 

Bart snorted. “You really thought we were gonna die, weren’t you?”

 

“Of course not. I’m just…” Tim made a face, separating from their embrace. He scrutinized Impulse to the fullest, then broke out into a smirk despite his wariness. “I’m not used to having a speedster as a good buddy. One that can get out of a jam and scare me half to death.”

 

Huh. Bart crossed his arms thoughtfully and inspected the Boy Wonder. He split into a grin all his own and extended a hand. “So we’re friends now, right?”

 

Tim shook his hand, no reluctance in his voice or stature. His head was raised high and he nodded approvingly. “Right. We’re friends.”

 

Robin managed to get a radio signal to contact Alfred and Nightwing. They had stayed at the base for another hour until Nightwing (and shockingly, Kid Flash) came to the scene of the crime to take Vilk and Deegan to prison. During that time, Tim and Bart settled next to the villains, airing Back to the Future on Tim’s holocomp and nestled tightly from the cold. They’d even started making jokes, like Bart did with Jaime from time-to-time whenever his _hermano_ wasn’t in a bad mood.

 

Tim also declared they were going to sit down and watch something called _Lord of the Rings._ (“Is it anything like Lord of the Flies where everyone goes insane?” “No, Bart.”) Which prompted an argument between Dick and Wally about the existence of magic and other things—they’d decided to stay out of that one. Once they got back to the ski resort with the help of the older Young Justice members, Jay grounded Bart for a _week_ for sneaking out. He could only assume the same happened to Tim—or at least hoped. Maybe not, since he was looking forward to that movie marathon.

 

Since then, Bart and Tim had been good friends. Tim meant as much to Bart as Jaime did—maybe more.

 

Which was probably why it hurt so much that Tim still hadn’t visited. 


	3. Visit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “No. But it was going to happen eventually. It’s pretty obvious how ashamed he is of himself.” Scratching his head again, Jaime made an awkward face and shrugged. “You know him. I get the loco Bart, you get the semi-less loco Bart. It’s like you managed to tame the crazy chupacabra or something.”

**Chapter 3:** Visit

 

In present time, it took three days from the incident for Tim to finally gather up the courage and visit Bart at the hospital. From his knowledge, everyone had already gone to see Bart—the entire Flash family, obviously. The team. Nightwing and Oracle, too. Dick assured him that it wasn’t his fault, but…Tim couldn’t help it.

 

He’d been the one in charge of the mission with the largest roster of people to inspect San Francisco. _He’d_ been the one to order Bart to go back inside the ship to search for stragglers. _His_ first thought whenever the ship had taken a shot from open fire was that Deathstroke had something to do with it.

 

And because of him, Bart could have even died. Tim lacked the comfort of saying Bart was still alive because the second worst thing happened—Impulse was shot in the _leg._ He wasn’t a competent leader. Not if his teammate nearly died, nor if that same one was a _speedster_ who depended on his feet to get him places.

 

Tim probably would have taken on more of Batman’s cases and avoid going to the hospital altogether, had not Babs, Dick, the team, _and_ Bruce insisted he visited. Dick even pointed out Bart was probably beating himself up over the matter.

 

So, when Tim opened the hospital door, he was greeted with origami monkeys. All in different positions, hanging off the various cables and cords around Bart, with paper elephants treading along the floor, zebras flocking on the ground, koala bears nestled tightly on the window sill, bears clinging onto poles on the ground, and origami giraffes in Bart’s hands. He had a distinct mustache taped to his face.

 

The color scheme of the room called for a heavy amount of pastels. Walls were decorated with smiling zebras (which explained why there seemed to be a herd of paper ones multiplying over a majority of the Tupperware) with two pale blue arm chairs that were almost too hard to find. A sane person would have gone crazy by now. Tim could only guess how a speedster could do.

 

Green eyes spared no glance, probably used to the door opening and closing due to constant visitors. What irked Tim the most, however, was the solemnity that overtook Bart’s gaze—hardness, that in the two years they’d known each other, Tim hated seeing. For a whole ten seconds, Tim stood parallel to the door, waiting for a reaction while Bart garnered another square of paper to turn into a paper animal. An origami bunny rabbit was nestled comfortably in brown hair.

 

“Bart?” he heard himself ask quietly. _Shit_ —he wasn’t prepared for that.

 

The speedster cocked his head, and instantaneously in those eyes alone, the elder teen could see Bart’s expression reanimate from a sullen dullness to awareness, acknowledgement and—no anger. Not yet, anyway.

 

“Tim!” A grin graced Bart’s lips. He moved to get out of the bed before remembering his circumstance. Bart froze, the safari of animals falling like snowflakes to the ground and landing dully on the cold floor. The thick blanket (homemade, patterned with dinosaurs and _Bartholomew_ stitched into the corner) shriveled on Bart’s lap, revealing what Tim dreaded the most: the metal contraption four times the width of Bart’s leg that incapacitated him.

 

The small part of what Tim could see of Bart’s damaged leg was his bare foot, which lay dully at the edge of the bed—almost like it didn’t belong. He bit the inside of his mouth, watching again as Bart’s demeanor contorted into hesitation. The corner of the younger teen’s lip curled upward, expression settling on grateful to see his leader.

 

“I thought you weren’t gonna come,” he admitted.

 

 _I almost didn’t_ , Tim didn’t say. He swallowed hard, watching every bit of Bart’s actions. Studying body movements came easy to him—and right now, he wasn’t sure if he liked what he saw. He learned from Cassie and Gar that Bart seemed bitter since his… _accident_. They could only stay in the room for a few minutes before it made both of them uncomfortable.

 

However, Bart only showed his true personality to a selected few; the one with the sadness in his eyes—anguish, that had seen everything a regular twelve-year-old boy should have never seen—and a mouth that was used to pretending to smile. Jaime had seen it only a few months after Bart arrived. Barry, Wally, and by association Nightwing saw it too, when Bart was obligated to tell what he’d known.

 

Tim managed to catch cracks in Bart’s façade through the time they knew each other, but…the rare privilege to _see_ Bart, unhinged and gruesome only made him nauseous. He’d seen firsthand how the Flash family took the truth with smiles upon their lips and did everything in their power to make sure Bart was graced with some semblance of a normal childhood. They’d been the perfect nurturer for Bart in the two years he’d arrived.

 

Two years. Here they were now—Bart fifteen, Tim sixteen.

 

After months of being in the past, Bart’s insipid gaze deteriorated with the whim that fell over in the speedster’s eyes whenever he spoke to someone, and it was natural for green orbs to light up when he smiled. It was less about forced rehearsal; of pretending Bart _was_ raised to be light-hearted like the rest of his family, and everything about that grin became Bart’s own.

 

But this Bart didn’t look like the ambitious kid painting the tower in loud colors only three days before. He didn’t look like the _tourist_ that came from the future, either. That left a kid that was staring into an abyss. One who had a smile didn’t reach his eyes, but went on like it did.

 

“I got busy,” Tim said finally, and his voice cracked. Slowly, he stepped forward and fidgeted, foot crumpling one of Bart’s paper creations. Under his sole was a paper turtle. Biting the inside of his mouth, Tim stepped closer.

 

“Of course you did.” Bart smiled evenly, his handiwork beginning again. His fingers pressed against a slip of bright red paper and he began the folds and creases to something that looked close to a paper boat. A complex one that was beginning to bear a striking resemblance to the _Argo._ “Makes a lot of sense. You work with Batman. And Batman like, takes on a lot of cases. At least forty each night, right? I bet he could tell if someone moved the Batmobile like an inch. He probably has some retro, high-tech security system to go about it, right? With automatic-window cleaners for when you smudge the windows.”

 

During that time, Tim hoped to get a word in, but didn’t get a chance. The smile upon Bart’s face was hard and stern, eyes glued to what his hands were doing. In a matter of seconds, a fine replica of the Argo sat prettily on the overbed table. Bart reached over to a _Crayola 64 Set of Colors_ , picked out a pleasant shade of salmon, and began to graffiti the sides.

 

“But you’re super that way. You’re cool enough to hang out with the _Batman._ You figured out who he and the original Robin were when you were _nine._ ” Bart tossed the crayon aside and searched for cerulean. “That’s fine though. Really.”

 

He searched the brunet’s voice in attempt to find any form of hate. Bart’s tone was constricted—barely audible even, to those who would have never heard him. “What’s…with the origami?”

 

It took a second (a _slow_ second) to register he’d been spoken to, but then Bart looked up, the smile inflexible and even across his lips. “The origami?”

 

Biting back the gesture of rolling his eyes effectively, Tim waved his hand around the room.

 

“Oh. Uh…huh…let’s see…” Bart reached over with his limited ability to move and brushed aside a pair of paper antelope that were fornicating on a thick book. He held it up in all its glory, making Tim twitch a little. _The Big Book of Origami._ “Jaime got me this instead of food. I think he was trying to get rid of it because it was a school assignment or something. Who knows—but it was a good book—took me like, four seconds to read and memorize it. Pretty sure he wanted me to do something so I wasn’t bored out of my mind eating all the comfort food everyone else got me.”

 

“I see.” Tim squeezed the bag of sour gummy worms he had in his pocket. They were Bart’s favorite—in a different circumstance, that was.

 

Bart barreled on. “You know how much chicken pot pie people have made? I like it as much as the next guy, and gosh—there’s chunky, squishy, peeled—all delicious, by the way. I burnt my tongue once but _sheesh_ , you go out one time with the Flash to a local diner and comment how much you like the pot pie, and _boom!_ Everyone makes it for you.”

 

Eventually, boredom captured Bart’s attention more than his boat and he pushed it aside. He started on another piece of paper, working in a fast-paced speed that it looked like a peacock once Tim blinked.

 

“I think everyone’s brought me something. Most of the people if not the entire state of Kansas, brought me all of the pot pie. We’re not even the pot pie state. Don’t think there is one.” Bart busied himself, picking up his pace and creating paper monkeys by threes. Nine of them aligned perfectly like recruits before he placed them aboard the _Argo_ and made a paper hat for the peacock. “Wally brought me more pot pie and some chicken whizees. Joan made me this blanket. Cassie and Gar like, raided the Target here to the point they refuse to let them buy food. Roy even gave me a nerf gun with knock out gas. That got taken away when he shot a doctor prepping for surgery though.”

 

Tim wasn’t sure if what Bart didn’t say was meant to be the loudest thing in his sentence. _You didn’t come by,_ he imagined was in the look. Bart’s demeanor seemed restrained, but casual. Too calculating for Tim to calm down in the room, and too cheery for him to even breathe. Slowly, he took another step forward until he was by Bart’s bed, sweaty hand squeezing the life out of the bag of candy in his grasp.

 

He pulled it out and extended an arm, fingers tight around the edges. “They’re—kinda warm.”

 

It was hard to tell whether Bart blinking constantly at the package was a good thing or a bad thing. Brown eyebrows rose until they met Bart’s hairline and his fingers curled around the package. His stone look softened and the taller teen’s chest tightened. “You—you brought these for me?”

 

“Sorry it’s not more pot pie.” _Wow_ , that sounded lame. Tim stuffed his hands back in his jacket and forced himself to keep looking at the speedster. This time as Bart’s demeanor changed, there was something more real about it. He…looked ready to cry—

 

And he still didn’t look like Tim’s— _the team’s_ Bart. Slowly, the brunet pulled apart the package. He looked frail and dainty in the bed, which didn’t fit his disruptive and loud personality at all—and looked like a little kid as he rummaged for a gummy worm.

 

The room became so silent that Tim could hear Bart bite into the sugar crystals and swallow. Green eyes wetted, brow pinched together as he relished in the food, and Tim swallowed a lump in his throat.

 

“Thank you,” Bart whispered quietly. He ate carefully—which didn’t come as a surprise. Bart not eating was a clear indication that he was upset, and it didn’t take a genius to understand wh—“I’m sorry.”

 

“What?” Beneath his sunglasses, Tim blinked in surprise.

 

“I’m sorry.” Green orbs refused to look at him, instead squeezing another gummy worm between his fingers and looking toward the ground. Tim could barely get a good look at the other teen’s face. “I’m a freaking screw up. I’m—I’m the _epitome_ of the word screw up, I’m a _screw up sandwich_ with an extra side of mustard and horse radish—which makes sense because I _hate_ horse radish. I should have known better, I—I shouldn’t have let you _down—”_

“Bart—” A lump swelled in Tim’s throat and without even thinking, he extended a hand and placed it firmly on Bart’s shoulder. Consequently, green orbs widened, darting back and forth between the contact and the Boy Wonder’s face. In any other circumstance, Tim would have rolled his eyes and written Bart off as a goofball, because—well, he was one. Should have been. “You are _not_ a screw up. Don’t you _ever_ call yourself that, do you understand?”

 

Bart’s face twisted, shadowing the little boy who lived in the future. “You’re my _leader._ You ordered me to go in and find stragglers and—I found _Deathstroke—”_

“No. Deathstroke found _you—”_

“Deathstroke is one of Nightwing’s baddies. And I should have been smarter, but I froze up—I should have fought him instead. I would have gotten out of there, maybe with Deathstroke handcuffed together and turned him in just like you—like you wanted—” Bart cradled his head in his hands, eyes shut tightly and brow pinched together. “You hate me.”

 

“ _No._ ” The more Bart spoke, the more disgusted he sounded with himself. Tim’s grip tightened painfully over the other teen and he seethed, choking on his own guilt until it felt like he couldn’t breathe anymore. “Bart, I came here to _apologize._ I—”

 

The speedster cocked his head, expression twisting in disbelief. “You? _Apologize_?”

 

The elder teen swallowed hard. He pulled his hand away, then gestured toward Bart’s cast—something that surprisingly, the brunet seemed to have forgotten all about. Bart followed his gaze, then readjusted his blanket so that his injury didn’t show—so that it looked like Bart was perfectly fine, even though he obviously wasn’t. The shorter teen glared at his circumstance and busied himself with another slip of paper.

 

“That’snothing.”

 

“I got you shot in the _knee._ ”

 

“Noyoudidn’t.” Bart shook his head furiously and scowled at the air. “I’m the idiot that couldn’t _fight back—_ “

 

“Even if you fought back, it’s Deathstroke we’re talking about. He probably—he _would have_ done worst to you.” _I almost **lost**_ _you_ , Tim didn’t say. Even in his head it was hard to grasp. He’d lost his mom, his father—everyone. Bart’s name didn’t belong on a list of people Tim needed to mourn at the end of every night. He was—Bart was—Tim shriveled, hand placed on his head to calm his thoughts. He squeezed his eyes shut beneath shades and his jaw tightened. “But it doesn’t get any better. You got _shot_ in the _knee_ , Bart. No amount of rationalizing will make it any less my fault. It happened on my watch, I—”

 

For the moment, Bart fell silent. He muted, eyes watching to take in every word Tim said. Then, he shook his head, hands curling into fists. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

 

“It means everything.” Tim read the reports. Bart’s kneecap had to be replaced with an artificial one. Even most athletes never fully recovered from an injury like his.

 

“Tim. _Tim._ ” Bart held his breath, glaring at the elder boy and looking to him as though he’d grown another head. “I still would have gone in the ship.”

 

“No, you wouldn’t have.”

 

“ _Yes._ I would have because you’d still look worried about the boat. You’d _never_ want to leave someone behind.”

 

“That’s not the point—Bart—” Tim gritted his teeth, having trouble with his own words. _Dammit._

 

“I would have done everything the same way. You should _know_ by now that I would do _anything_ for you. I…I trust you.” Bart raised his hands in the air, his lips tight and hands curled into his blanket. “I showed you where my parents are going to be _buried,_ for crying out loud.”

 

Right. Tim bit the inside of his mouth, feeling the memory surface in his head. He couldn’t forget it—not that one. But all the same, he felt the air in his lungs give away and for once, he didn’t have a fixed retort for Bart’s ceaseless rambling. He looked to the ground, where origami gorillas were frolicking on paper planes, and shut his eyes. Tim didn’t want this. He didn’t want what Bart did.

 

“I don’t want you sacrificing yourself. Not for me.” Tim’s voice fell short. “Not for me, okay?”

 

That didn’t mean an instant _okay_ on Bart’s end. The expression across his face disappeared, demeanor contorting again. His entire look sobered, and the eyes that irked Tim most surfaced. Seeing it across Bart’s face made him realize he should have visited sooner—come sooner, to make sure his comrade was okay. Any sign of amusement or joy was lost under a desolate gaze. Bart’s gaze was grief-stricken, void of any hope he may have had earlier.

 

“I don’t have anything else,” Bart whispered in a tiny voice. “The Reach is _gone_. And Grandpa B is here to raise his kids—all I am is a _paradox_ , Tim. What _else_ do I _have_ to do?” He didn’t have anything else to live for—

 

—was where Bart was getting at. Tim’s hands curled at his sides. It was easy to forget that Bart arrived to the past with a mission in mind. Once the mission was over—Bart didn’t have the human response. Bruce, Dick, or he would have lived in the moment until the next case arose. But—that… _wasn’t_ how Bart should have to view things. He had a family.  Three father figures, three mother figures, a cranky cousin who treated him like a pesty little brother and an older sister—one who still loved him wholly, even if Wally and Artemis weren’t dating anymore.

 

Yet how did _that_ not count as ‘something else’?

 

Just then, the door swung opened. A nurse arrived, undeterred by the safari of origami animals that littered the ground. Instead, she offered a terse smile in Bart’s direction, her hand still on the door. “Impulse, sweetie, are you ready to try physical therapy today?”

 

“No.” In a matter of seconds, Bart buried himself beneath his blankets, back turned to the Boy Wonder.

 

Tim watched the actions, followed by the nurse’s reaction. She sighed forlornly, looked at the amount of food in Tupperware around the room and bowed her head. “Okay then, sweetie. We’ll try again later.”

 

Even when she shut the door, Bart refused to turn around. The speedster was wrapped firmly in his cocoon, refusing to move or lift a finger. Tim’s jaw slackened and he waited. No change. He’d run out of things to say, too.

 

Taking slow, heavy steps to the door, he spared one more glance behind him, hand squeezing the doorknob. No reaction.

 

“I’ll see you later,” he muttered quietly. “Bye.”

 

He shut the door behind him quietly and walked away, nothing else to be said.

 

 

**xxx**

The instance Bart spoke about happened four months prior to him getting shot. Exactly two weeks after Jack Drake—Tim’s father—had been murdered by Captain Boomerang.

 

The funeral was quick, and every bit as painful as stepping into a container of broken glass.  The entire week, Tim couldn’t breathe—he couldn’t remember how it happened, why it happened, if he’d even cried when his father’s body was lowered, six feet into the ground. WayneTech (the company sponsoring his “scholarship”; the absolute lie he’d been telling his dad for _years_ ) took care of all the arrangements. He had no living family that could take him in, and after Bruce Wayne flashed the adoption papers to child services what seemed like moments later, the next day was spent with Babs, Dick, Alfred helping him move in.

 

His new family.

 

A legal binding that could not have taken more than ten minutes to fill out, that made Dick Grayson his legal brother and Bruce Wayne his adoptive fa—his guardian.

 

The first night, Batman relieved him of any duties. The teen sat in his new bed—the old guest room that used to be his when he fell asleep on duty in the Batcave—for hours, staring off into space and playing the different scenarios in his head. They let him hold the legal papers, allowed him to read every bit of it as though it would calm him down. Dick and Barbara lay beside him, encasing Tim in an arm and a blanket to protect him from the outside world. They said nothing, not even for him to sleep—because everyone had a way with dealing with grief in their family. Every one.

 

When twenty-four hours passed by, not a minute sooner from when they buried Jack Drake, Tim locked himself away in the bathroom, sick to his stomach and threw up beside the toilet. He clasped his hands over his ears and pretended in that brief moment, the world didn’t exist. Eighteen hours later and the second night after the funeral, Bruce came into the room and held him like a small child.

 

After coping, all Tim wanted to do was get back on the field. Life went on. Certainly, neither Nightwing nor Oracle stopped because of his grievances. _Crimes_ didn’t. He needed a way to let go of his anger. Being at home—wasn’t home. He now lived, breathed, and slept at Batman’s freaking headquarters, for crying out loud.

 

Much like an upset Bart, he had no appetite. He looked at Alfred’s food in disgust, even if the warmth tingled in his lungs as he breathed in. Tim could barely will himself to _talk_ , let alone eat. It left an ache in his throat—a burn that no matter how hard he tried to forget, wouldn’t go away.

 

When Bart arrived, it was two weeks since the murder.

 

Tim had delved himself in his work since then. He forced Bruce to go back to WayneTech and negotiated with the Flash (Wally) to take his boyfriend away so Tim could work in silence. At least Babs, who had reign over the supercomputer, allowed him to be about on his own so long as he called in case of trouble. After promising he would, Babs went away with Alfred to help do grocery shopping. He assumed they were going to try and make another dish to cheer him up again—they usually did.

 

He’d been in the middle of figuring out a deal Two-Face had made with Scarecrow when the doorbell rang forty times. The screen of the super-computer flickered, humming before a window popped up, showing the footage from the camera at the front door.

 

Bart.

 

Light brown hair was combed back tidily, a nervous smile glittering across his lips. Unlike his normal clothes, the speedster wore a green and yellow sweater vest that looked as though it’d been stolen from his grandfather’s closet, followed by a pair of long khakis. The only thing out of place was the pair of red-and-yellow running shoes that stuck out to Bart’s…formal wear.

 

At first, Tim hesitated. He stared at the beaming image of Young Justice’s speedster via camera, tapped his armrest, and bit the inside of his mouth. Then, finally, he promptly stood up, grabbed Dick’s spare sweatshirt as it hung off the banister, and slung it over the Robin uniform. The doorbell was still ringing as he made it to the front of the manor. (The place was so _big._ Empty. Tim couldn’t imagine a young Bruce walking through the halls of it every day without once ever feeling lonely.)

 

“Hi!” Green eyes lit up as soon as Tim met him at the door.  Up front, Tim hadn’t noticed the white carnations tucked gingerly behind him. _Remembrance._ It was enough for Tim to slam the door in the speedster’s face. _SLAM._

Bart knocked on the door again.

 

“I’m not going to the cemetery with you, Bart.” Tim distanced himself from the door and sat gingerly on the staircase. He stuffed his hands in his pocket and stared at the knob, simply waiting for his friend to give up.

 

 _Everyone_ had tried it already. He’d skipped out on team missions in Happy Harbor so he could avoid the pitying looks everyone felt the need to give him. Cassie and Gar came by earlier in the week in order to cheer him up, but Tim promptly ignored them at the door.

 

Bart only got close because Tim thought it’d be different. (In present time, Tim had to muse that just like he himself, Bart took time before finally visiting.)

 

He heard the rough _pat-pat_ of speedster feet as they circled the mansion, preceded by another roll of knocks on the large, cumbersome ten-foot tall double doors while Bart simultaneously badgered the doorbell. _“C’monc’monc’mon!_ That’snotwhattheflowersareforTim!”

 

Tim twitched. The doors were decorated with dismal, gothic stained glass windows. Currently, a baby-faced speedster felt the need to press his nose against them, eyes wide and face flat. He bit the inside of his mouth and slowly inched toward the door again.

 

When he opened it, Bart smoothed out his sweater vest and tossed Tim the flowers. The smile on his face only brightened. “Hi! Uh, you know—again!”

 

Tim stared at the white carnations suspiciously. They were beautifully wrapped in a purple paper, accented with a white ribbon. He knew Bart to be less of an idiot than the brunet tended to feign, so why was he given a bouquet of mourning flowers two weeks after his dad _died_? Still, Tim couldn’t bring himself to toss them aside. The look on Bart’s face and the way he handled them kept the elder teen from doing so.

 

A second later, Bart grabbed him by the hand and darted down the halls of the Manor. “Whichoneisyourroom?”

 

“The—second door—on the—right—what the hell, Bart?” Tim was thrown onto the bed. The carnations were put aside, along with the loose sweatshirt Tim had over his gear. Then, Bart zipped over to Tim’s closet (meagerly stuffed, with minimal things from his old home.) and sifted through the elder teen’s clothes. “Bart. _Bart_.”

 

Bart stopped momentarily when he heard his name and turned around. He grinned. “I’m taking you out. You know, like a date.”

 

A date. Tim blinked, feeling as the red bloomed willingly in his cheeks. Fortunately Bart wasn’t looking at him, but instead searching for the perfect outfit for Tim to change into. There was no sign of fluster or any different affect to the other teen—he only kept his smile, yanking at different shirts and flinging them at the bed. “I don’t think that word means what you think it means.”

 

“Noun. ‘A social gathering between two friends who may or may not feel romantically inclined to each other and use said gathering to sort out their feelings.‘” Bart turned around, clearly settling on a dark red sweater and one of Tim’s v-necks. He turned his attention to Tim’s dresser and began rummaging for pants.

 

Tim’s brain froze and reeled in reverse. Um.

 

“We’re at that point now, right?” Bart quickly said before the Boy Wonder’s lack of conversation was made a problem. He looked over his shoulder and flashed a grin. “I’ve got feelings. You’ve got feelings. Read that out of the dictionary while Grandma Iris was giving birth to the twins a few years back. I like to read.”

 

“I…see.” Tim pressed a hand to his face and hoped Bart hadn’t gotten to his underwear drawer just yet. “Look, Bart. I’ve…got a lot of stuff to do. This isn’t—”

 

“Please?” Bart whirled around, his face contorted hopefully. He pulled out a pair of Tim’s dark blue jeans, gaze begging, then squeezed the pants tightly in his grip and tilted his head confidently. “I’m _not_ going to take you where your dad’s buried because—wow, sad, dead people. But I do want to show you something. And maybe get some dinner. Wally gave me twenty bucks to get out of his apartment so Nightwing and he could cuddle or something. AfterthatI’llgetoutofyourhairokay?”

 

Large, emerald green orbs looked to Tim, awaiting a reaction. Even a sound left Bart’s lip, creating the perfect image of a puppy begging for attention. Holding his breath, Tim sighed and stood to his feet reluctantly. His gaze narrowed toward the younger teen and he grimaced. “Fine. But not for long.”

 

“Cool!” Bart lunged forward—

 

“I can dress _myself_ , Bart.”

 

“Oh, uh—right. Wearthis!” Red pleasantly glowed across Bart’s cheeks, cheerful and adoring before he zipped out of the room.

 

Ten minutes later, Tim dressed in something other than his uniform or pajamas for the first time in weeks. Looking in the mirror reminded him that Tim hadn’t bathed in the past three days. His hair stood in unruly hedges, greasy and sweaty. Dark shadows marked themselves beneath blue eyes with tired wrinkles at the creases of his lids. He was tall—average height for his age, but even dressed up Tim knew he lost weight from focusing on criminal cases rather than eating.

 

Bart was by the door when he finally left his room, cradling the flowers in his hands with absolute care. Despite his earlier declarations he seemed nervous, tapping at the floor with his foot anxiously and looking to the clock every ten seconds. When Tim turned around, the brunet broke into a refreshing grin. He pushed the carnations into Tim’s grasp again. “Hold these.”

 

Tim took them obediently. “Okay.”

 

“Now—” Bart whirled around like a puppy and ran three circles around Tim. He came to a halt and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “How should I carry you?”

 

 “Carry?” Tim twitched.

 

“Yeah. ‘What one does when he has someone on top of him and is moving’?” A smirk curled against Bart’s lips, wry and mischievous. He turned around, facing the door, and looked over his shoulder. “You wanna get on my back? I think that’s how Wally carries Dick.”

 

“I’m leaving.” Tim turned around.

 

“No!” _WOOSH_

 

“Whoa—” Before Tim could gather his thoughts, Bart scooped the teen up in his grasp and cradled Tim like a bride over the threshold. It didn’t help, Tim thought, that he was still holding the _flowers._ Still, Bart grinned loudly and started out the door. Knowing how forward-minded Bart could be, Tim instinctively opened his mouth to lecture the speedster—

 

“Just trust me,” Bart said. “Okay?” He looked down, green eyes locking onto blue and eyebrows upturned. They shined, concern and anxiety still apparent in Bart’s demeanor. The brunet bit his lip, clearly apprehensive about wherever their destination was. It wasn’t every often that Bart ever got nervous—which was enough for Tim not to scold.

 

The taller teen kept watch, even scaring himself as he felt Bart’s pulse against him. It’d been the first time Bart ever attempted carrying him—probably anyone. Tim never had the opportunity (if one would call it that) to accompany a speedster, but he could feel the hum of Bart’s body pressed against his own. The energy in Bart’s legs coiled around his ankles, distributing in heavy, throbbing bursts as he darted further through the scenery. 

 

Like any other kid their age, Bart had finally reached his growth spurt. Years before people wrote him off as _small_ and _dainty_. They never would have thought _underfed_ and _malnourished_. He was still one of the shorter members of the team, but carried himself larger. Better. Comparing old pictures of Wally and Dick to when Kid Flash was their age, Bart was only a little smaller. But he was still bigger than he used to be, slowly losing the boyishness and baby fat in his cheeks.

 

He was tanner than most people in his family, though Tim decided it probably came from his maternal side. A light array of brown freckles decorated the bridge of the boy’s nose, bending and contorting each time he smiled or frowned. One could only see it if they were as close as Tim was standing. His expressions became less poised, more organic and akin to the three Flashes, too.

 

He was happy for Bart. Always, if Bart was happy.

 

They entered the city limits of Happy Harbor, which was when Tim’s stomach clenched again. He swallowed the idea of squirming out of Bart’s grip, instead trying to keep his tongue as they shot from street corner to street corner until they arrived in a busier, bustling area. (Surprisingly, no one batted an eyelash to an unmasked speedster who happened to be carrying someone with him through the streets.)

 

Bart slid Tim out of his grip, allowing him the chance to gather their surroundings. They were in the more metropolitan area, where skyscrapers and buildings reached above—all intimidating, all more than likely to be crashed into by heroes and criminals alike during the next few months. He caught Bart’s gaze and followed it to a WayneTech building, which gleamed and blinked proudly even in broad daylight.

 

“The Team isn’t having a mission here or something, are they?” Tim’s voice disintegrated while Bart plucked the carnations out of his grip.

 

“Nope.” Bart’s stature stiffened. “Stayrighthereasecondokay?” He zipped off, reappearing at the door attendant’s side. Before the man could say anything, Bart extended arms and gave away the flowers.

 

Tim watched the back of the speedster’s head as it dipped and the rest of Bart’s body as he made wide gestures. It surprised him more when the attendant smiled and ruffled his hair. Bart returned, sheepish and without his bouquet of flowers.

 

“That’s Doug,” he said as though it explained everything.

 

“You brought me here so you could give flowers to WayneTech’s door attendant.”

 

“Sort of. Well—okay.” Bart took a slow, agonizing breath. “This is where my parents are buried.”

 

 _What?_ Tim’s expression loosened. He stared at the speedster, who then stuffed his hands in his pockets and looked toward the ground, unable to meet eyes with anyone or anything. “What did you just say?”

 

The look on Bart’s face shriveled. He wobbled between his feet and looked as sick to his stomach as Tim had felt in the past few weeks. “Inabout—In…about twenty years…in _my_ future, they tear down this building. And…sometime after that, when I’m about six years old, my parents die.” He cocked his head up, staring at the lot as though the building no longer existed. Somewhere in the conversation, he lost the caprice in his voice, gazing solemnly, with his lips tight. “They uh. Theywerelikeme. Dad was a speedster and Mom—well, she’s related to Zoom. They revolted. And then they got killed.”

 

Tim said nothing.

 

Bart’s shoulders hunched to his ears and he looked up, gaze fixated on the taller teen. His gaze wetted tears, and he wiped them away with his forearm , fumbling into a smile. “I just—I figured if I brought you here, you’d see how strong you are. I mean—my parents died when I was eight and look at me—I bounced back. I’d like to think I’m a decent guy now. But…”

 

“But what?” The Boy Wonder asked quietly. He felt his heart tremor, skipping a beat as he too, and stared at the building as though everyone in it were already dead. As far as he understood, they’d changed the future already—what happened to Bart’s parents may or may not still happen. For Bart, raising his father every day and knowing in the future his dad already died heartbreaking. _Nerve-wracking._

 

“But you’re _Robin._ Everything comes easier to you because you’re so much better at _persevering._ ” If possible, Bart shrunk in his gaze, the gloom in his voice increasing dreadfully. “Youwerebasicallybredtobeahero. I was…I came to stop something. The heroes always get better. Always.”

 

Tim’s lips remained glued together, looking upon the boy who showed up at his door so enthusiastic, but now looked like a little kid again. A six-year-old little boy who lost both his parents. Bart didn’t make his reason for coming to the past a gimmick. If he had it his way those years ago, he would have never told anyone his plans and just hoped that they worked.

 

It was a quality about Bart Tim never fully understood. There’d always been something about him that commanded Tim’s attention on a different level—the way Bart held himself, or his tactless, idiotic, _tactical_ way to approach the situation. Sometimes Bart was crazy, sometimes he was a crazy, _humble_ guy. Like now.

 

Without even realizing it, Tim reached out to hold Bart’s hand—anything, to keep Bart from getting sad. He decided from there on out that he hated the look on Bart’s face that made him grow up too early. He twitched, when the flesh of his hand met Bart’s, and turned red as green eyes turned his way, full of surprise.

 

“Did you…” Tim hesitated. “Did you know? About my…about my dad dying?”

 

Feebly, Bart shook his head. He made a face, recounting something from the past Tim wasn’t sure he wanted to know. “No. I—no. I read up on the Robins, but you know _Bats._ You guys aren’t exactly the sharing time. But. But if I did—”

 

“But if you did,” Tim cut him off. “You would have tried everything to prevent it.” Just as he expected, Bart bit his lip and nodded. Instinctively, he gave the petite teen a soft squeeze in their interlaced hands and felt his heart tremor. “I wouldn’t want you to.”

 

Bart blinked a billion times, his long eyelashes fluttering as he did so. He raised his head immediately in confusion, but Tim could only shake his head.

 

“Just because you read the history books doesn’t mean you need to control every facet of time. You’re not here for that. For all you know, if my dad were still alive something else cataclysmic could have affected the time stream.” Tim swallowed hard. “My dad. He…uh. He didn’t know I was Robin. Not. Not until toward the end. Because of him I planned on stopping being Robin for good and—I don’t know. In your time—”

 

“Trust me. Robin has a place in my future. You end up doing pretty awesome things.”

 

The corner of Tim’s lip curled awkwardly. “I thought you said Bats were anti-sharing.”

 

“Oh, they are.” The speedster snorted, rocking on his heels and causing their grip upon each other to undulate. He rolled his eyes casually, looking better relaxed with himself. Even his pulse felt better between their tangled fingers. “But…you’re Tim. And cool. I know you’ll do crash things.”

 

Ah. Tim felt his face redden. “Thanks. For showing this to me, I mean. Does Jai—does…anyone else know about this?”

 

Headshake. “No. Just you.” Bart scratched his head, face morphing slightly. “Even I know it’d be a stupid idea to bring it up in front of everyone. Especially Grandpa and Grandma. I just…” The speedster let out a breath, his entire body swaying as it relaxed, like it was waiting for Tim’s reaction the entire time. “Can we keep it between us? Please?”

 

“Yeah.” A heartbeat passed between them, where both boys stared at the building once again. Tim recalled Dick mentioning several missions had taken place around Happy Harbor when Nightwing was still Robin. Being a WayneTech building, he’d never thought much of it other than to tease Bruce in his head in passing. Now he could barely see it as a building.

 

A crinkling sound tore him away from his thoughts. Cocking his head, he was met with the site of Bart crushing a twenty-dollar bill in his hand. The brunet jumped between his feet like a jogger prepping for a run—or a three-year-old doing the potty dance. Regardless, the other teen fumbled with a smile and patted his stomach. “So…you up for some grub? Because I’m starved and Wally’s probably still busy doing whoknowswhat with Nightwing.”

 

Tim blinked. Then for the first time in weeks, his stomach growled as though it heard the request. That, upon Bart’s eyes darting back and forth from his stomach to his face, made Tim _laugh._ Short, quiet, and tingling in the back of his throat.

 

“Ohmygodyou’relaughing. Did I break you? Please don’t tell me I broke you—Wally’s going to _kill_ me for that.” Bart zipped around the taller teen , eyes wide and clearly fascinated.

 

“Bart—Secret—ID?”

 

“Oh. Uh. Right.” Bart stopped. “Sooo….Lunch?”

 

“Yeah. Lunch.”

 

A look of anticipation fell in Bart’s gaze. He was quaint, with a pleasant glow in his cheeks as he looked Tim up and down, and truthfully, Tim was doing the same. Bart reached over and wrapped a hand securely around Tim’s as though it was belonged there. Neither said a word, pretending that it actually did. Somewhere in it, Tim forgot the whole ordeal that brought him out here—he focused on Bart’s light freckles, his hopeful smile, and the way their hands tingled as they touched. No Robin, no Impulse.

 

They walked down the streets of Happy Harbor, silent and giddy, hand-in-hand.

 

**xxx**

Jaime found Tim sitting on a bench outside the hospital. Tim had been, to some degree, sulking. His hands remained clasped together and he stared at him, remembering the ghost of Bart’s fingers curled against his. After that “date” in Happy Harbor, they hadn’t established anything—Alfred found them later that night in Tim’s room, marathoning old episodes of Star Trek. No one made a move to cuddle or to kiss—everything after it was pretty much platonic.

 

“You okay, ese?” Jaime stood in front of his teammate and usually by default, team leader. Another book, the same size as the one Bart had shown Tim, was tucked under his arm. “Yo. Robin. You alright?”

 

“What?” Tim blinked, snapping out of his thoughts after a minute. He looked up, confused, and checked his watch. _Ugh_ —he hadn’t moved in at least two hours. Standing to his feet, he felt the blood as it pooled in his legs and grimaced. “Yeah. I’m—I’m fine.”

 

The other boy blinked, an eyebrow immediately darting in the air. Out of most of their comrades, Jaime was admittedly on the more rational side. “Sooooo, why do you look like you’re sulking because Bart kicked you out of his room?”

 

“He didn’t kick me out.” Tim grimaced. “I walked out.”

 

“Okay then.” Jaime scratched his head, running a hand through his own hair. He’d been growing it out in the past few months. “So would it be a bad idea of going up there?”

 

“You can do whatever you want.” Then quickly, Tim added, “He’s…different since the accident. More…”

 

“Serious?”

 

“Bitter. About everything.” The corner of Tim’s lip stretched downward and he frowned, again looking at his hands. He thought back to the smile Bart had given him that day and couldn’t help chest aching. “He’s blaming himself for landing in the hospital even though it’s my fault. That’s why we fought.”

 

“Ah. _That_ argument.”

 

“He told you about it?”

 

“No. But it was going to happen eventually. It’s pretty obvious how ashamed he is of himself.” Scratching his head again, Jaime made an awkward face and shrugged. “You know him. I get the loco Bart, you get the semi-less loco Bart. It’s like you managed to tame the crazy chupacabra or something.”

 

“Chupacabra.”

 

“You know—the goat eating—”

 

“I know what a chupacabra is—what’s your point?”

 

“Well,” the darker teen shoved a hand in his pockets. Being who he was, he perched himself next to Tim on the bench and offered a sympathetic smile. “Look, there’s a way that Bart looks at me, and there’s away Bart just _adores_ at you. He may act—and _be_ —a spacecase most of the time, but he holds your opinion pretty high.”

 

“Okay?” Tim frowned.

 

“You offended him when you said it was your fault. Treated him like a kid. I spent the past two years flicking him off my shoulder like he was a cockroach and we’re still good friends. Even if you _were_ the one at fault, ese—which I’m not saying you are—it’s Bart that’s in the hospital. He’s the one that’s gotta figure out what he’s gonna do.”

 

“You’re telling me I should let him pin the blame on himself.”

 

“Nah, man. I’m telling you Bart’s gotta be the one to figure out what the next step is from here.” Jaime shrugged, stretching out his legs so the back of his feet met the cement. “You know him. Stubborn like the rest of his hotheaded familia. The most you can do right now is try. He’s got those eyes like he’s stuck in the future again. Not everyone got to see that during the big reveal all those years ago.” Jaime made gestures with his hands. In a twisted irony there was something about the way he moved that reminded Tim of Bart, though in a mocking sense. Even the way Jaime’s face twisted had some remnants of their speedster. “That’s why no one can get used to the idea that annoying little Bart is hurting.”

 

That was true. The thought in mind, Tim felt his insecurity exposed. He sighed, burying his head in his hands. If it weren’t for him, that look would have never resurfaced upon Bart’s face. He was the cause for that, the cause for Bart going back into the ship, for Bart nearly _dying_ , for Bart getting shot in the _knee._

 

Jaime stood to his feet and offered out a hand. Tim stared at it.

 

“C’mon, he’s got the attention span of a gnat sometimes.” The other teen rolled his eyes, obviously amused. “The longer you draw this out, the madder he’ll think you are at him.” 


	4. Therapy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It took three days, but Bart lost the feeling in his butt.

It took three days, but Bart lost the feeling in his butt.

 

He’d spent the morning folding every animal or object that existed in the big book of origami. As a result, the room had been littered with everything from paper antelopes to zebras. Bart had gotten so good at it that he even figured out how to make the two robots that bopped each other until someone’s head sprung up. (The real thing had been another gift of Arsenal’s, however—once the nurses retrieved Bart’s weaponized NERF gun, they decided to confiscate anymore gifts received by the young Roy Harper.)

 

Bart was ready to leave. He’d been at the hospital for at least an eternity now, occasionally surviving on pot pies. The longer he stayed, the more Deathstroke conjured in his mind.

 

Deathstroke’s menacing glare. Deathstroke’s palpating, spectral voice. His height, which loomed over six feet too many for Impulse, and the way heavy fingers drew the trigger.

 

The shot that fired loudly; louder than even Bart’s heartbeat.

 

Given the fact he was annoyed that his leader hadn’t visited yet, stacked with hearing the gunshot every time he tried to fall asleep, Bart was disgruntled. Now, he lay curled in his bed with the blanket Joan made wrapped tightly around him until the brunet looked like a speedster burrito. The sour gummy worms that Tim had given him were pressed close to his chest, squeezed so tightly until he could feel them pounding.

 

Tim leaving the room left a sour taste in his mouth, too. He stared out the window that was further away than arm’s length and felt the lump in his throat swell until he couldn’t breathe. In truth, once the third Boy Wonder had entered his room, Bart hadn’t realized how not having something to do scared him. He was Bartholomew Henry Allen. _Impulse._ What direction was he supposed to go if he’d completed the only thing he _desperately needed_ years ago?

 

Especially with the condition of his leg. He was too scared to use it.

 

The metal wrapped around one leg dug into the flesh of the other, and it left uncomfortable red marks. He refused to look at either of them, so along with the fact he could barely move or twist his body, he kept them covered and refused to get up. Even the catheter was beginning to lose its appeal. (The sponge baths though—those were still okay.)

 

Bart was miserable. Bored, from having nothing to do and angry at himself because when Tim finally came, Tim didn’t _feel_ flattered. He didn’t _understand_ why Bart would have done anything for him, which made Bart even angrier. How was he supposed to do good in the world when Tim, one of his best friends, basically told him he couldn’t _be_ a hero?

 

It hurt. A lot. And every time he tried to push the thought away, it came back as a throbbing ache. He couldn’t understand why, but Tim steering him from his thoughts felt like all the air in the room had disappeared. He was even less motivated to get out of the bed than he had been before.

 

“I want to see to him again,” he mumbled aloud. Slowly, Bart wriggled in his blanket burrito and brought the gummy worms to his face. He inhaled the sour crystals and rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “I really, _really_ see to talk to him again.”

 

“Bart?”

 

Wow. Talking to himself really worked some magic. Bart snapped out of his ministrations and raised his chin. At the door was Jaime, who had a weird look on his face as he took in the sight of all the paper animals. His best friend muttered something incomprehensible under his breath, rolled his eyes in his usual manner and let his lips twist into an odd frown-smile.

 

“Geez, hermano. I leave you alone for _three days_ and you let the zoo out in your room?” Jaime sighed loudly—whether it was irritated or exasperated, Bart could still hear the affection in his undertone, along with a _‘What-am-I-going-to-do-with-you’_ gesture. “You even look like a giant _taco_.”

 

Bart snorted. Had he been in a better mood, he probably would have laughed. Instead, he struggled as he uncoiled himself, feeling Jaime’s fingers undo where he tucked the blanket. “I like to think of myself as a burrito. _”_ Unfurling from the blanket, he slowly sat up against the bed and sighed—then looked to his best friend again. “You brought me another book?”

 

Jaime handed it to him. _College Algebra, 5ed. By Mark Dugopolski._ “Yeah. You see, I figured since you remembered everything you _read—_ “

 

“Done.” Bart pushed the book aside after skimming the details and deemed it his new footrest. He looked up, smirking as Jaime made a face, and crossed his arms smugly.

 

His best friend blinked. Once, twice—maybe ten times, with an indescribable sound stretching from the back of his throat. Finally, he matched Bart’s smirk, albeit less enthusiastically. “I hope you know you’re a freak.”

 

“Yeah, but I’m a freak that can do your math homework.” The brunet raised his head to look more intelligent, but it simply conjured another sound from his friend. He could almost feel himself breathe again. Sure—this wasn’t Tim, but having Jaime here to distract him was the next best thing. He rarely got to see Jaime outside of missions anymore because the guy was busy with school. No matter how much Bart begged him to hang out, Jaime would groan and complain about how he hated his academics.

 

At the moment, Jaime bothered to snicker and pulled on the complimentary armchair until it met the bed. He put aside the million Tupperware containers and slipped off his backpack to pull out a notebook. “So you gonna help me with my homework?”

 

“Seeing as you’re the only one who didn’t bring me pot pie, I’d think it’d be a good idea.” There was something odd in the way Jaime reacted to Bart’s statement, but he thought best to ignore it. The last thing Bart wanted was for someone to stare at him like—like he was broken, or he was a screw up—

 

“Oh, gummy worms. Share?”

 

—oh. Bart bit the inside of his mouth, looking down to the crumpled bag on his stomach. He’d only eaten a few when Tim was in the room hours ago. After that, they were in his arms like a child’s teddy bear. “Uh…yeah. I guess—” Raising his gaze to the door, he was met with the sight of Tim.

 

_Double wow._

“Whatareyoudoinghere?” He came back. Bart suppressed his shock as best he could, but the fact of the matter was—Tim came _back._ He sat up straighter in his bed, failing to conceal the surprise across his demeanor and looked to Tim. Whether it was out of anger or happiness, even he couldn’t tell.

 

Once Tim realized he was being addressed, he raised his head and opened his mouth to speak. Not a word came out. His eyebrows pinched together and he grimaced.

 

“Found him outside when I first came.” Jaime, however, immediately brought the attention back to him. Or tried, at least. Bart could hear the nervousness in his friend’s voice, but his attention was still fixated on Tim. Yeah, he wished on the magic bag of gummy worms for Tim to come _back_ —he just didn’t expect for it to actually work.

 

Finally, Tim sighed and slowly sauntered forward. He placed his hands on the edge of the bed, squeezing the metal bars with anticipation before lifting his head again. “I wanted to apologize. For what I said to you.”

 

Bart blinked.

 

“I would have done the same thing. Anyone—probably would have done the same thing.” Tim’s throat constricted. “We would have acted on…well… _impulse._ ”

 

 _Ah_. Hearing his codename didn’t make Bart feel any better. However, he swallowed the new discomfort that swelled in his throat and allowed his fingers to curl into the blanket. Come to think of it, no one had called him _Impulse_ since his entry to the hospital. Not even Jay, Grandpa Barry, or Wally. “Okay. Crash. Apology accepted.”

 

“So why won’t you look me in the eye?”

 

His fingers curled tighter into the blanket. At that moment, the door opened again and Bart’s nurse appeared. Beverley (his nurse—you started to learn a few things after a few sponge baths) looked to him kindly. She was tall and pretty. The way she presented herself reminded him more of his Grandma Iris. “Are you ready for physical therapy, Impulse?”

 

Bart shook his head, ready to animate a story about explosive bowels—

 

“You turned it down this afternoon, too.” —when Tim interrupted, head raised and invested in the conversation. And—crap, he was frowning instead of tiptoeing. Bart froze, feeling his face grow pale. Beverly glanced Tim’s way, an eyebrow high in the air along with a placid, somewhat guilty smile.

 

“Yes, well, uh...it seems like all the food that people are sending from Central City isn’t agreeing with his stomach. We keep relaying messages back when the Flashes visit that it isn’t a good idea to give him so much, but as soon as we send it off,” Bev clicked her tongue. “More keeps coming.”

 

To prove her point, Bart half-heartedly wiggled around the bed. The sound of food foil and wrappers crunched beneath him and he nodded sagely. “I’ve been packed all day. It’ll probably fall out between my legs like a mudslide.”

 

“Ew.” Jaime twitched and backed up two feet. Bart hid his smirk.

 

Which was easy because Tim glanced his way again, his head raised high and a frown tight on his lips. “You don’t want to go through with physical therapy.”

 

“Whatwouldmakeyousay _that_?” _Craaap._ Bart gritted his teeth, his eyebrows naturally contorting in the presence of both his teammates. Worst of all, Jaime was in the room to witness Tim and him annoy each other.

 

Beneath the shades, there was no doubt that Tim was unraveling the “mystery.” Probably better than Wally, too, because Bats were just _good_ like that. Suddenly he cocked his head, meeting Beverley’s gaze plainly. “He’s ready for physical therapy.”

 

“No I’m no— _”_ Well, that wouldn’t have helped his case. Bart glared angrily at his leader.

 

“Uh, dude—” Jaime got up from his seat, obviously finding the problem out now, but faltered when Tim held up a hand, still talking to Bart’s nurse.

 

“I’m his leader,” he explained, voice raising firmly. “Trust me. He’s ready for it.”

 

 _Ugh._ Beverley spared the speedster one glance, though it wasn’t one Bart was familiar with outside the sponge baths. She looked the way Cassie did one day when Bart had stolen her clothes and ran around as _WonderPulse._ “If you’re sure.”

 

No. He was _not_ sure and he totally had _no_ right to this and Tim was so freaking _moding_ Bart.

 

But for the first time since they’d seen each other all day, Tim looked his way with a real reaction on his face. Sure, it wasn’t _good_ reaction—just a suspicious frown and an eyebrow hiked in the air—however it beat out the guilty, wounded pride look Tim had been sporting. Bart couldn’t help his own scowl, which to even his own face felt odd.

 

They looked at each other expectantly, waiting for the other to move. Then, because it was _Tim_ and Tim was _Robin_ , he turned his head back to Bevereley and nodded. “You go ahead and get what you need. My friend and I will bring him to the next room.”

 

Again, Beverley offered a look, but said nothing. Instead, she turned in Bart’s direction and smiled. “I’ll be right back.”

 

As soon as she left, Tim sauntered over and offered an arm. His gaze was calculative, even beneath his shades and Bart couldn’t help his loud sigh.

 

Jaime looked back and forth between them, clearly unsure what to do in the situation. He snapped Bart out of his stupor by putting a hand on his shoulder. “Have you been holing yourself up here on purpose, hermano?”

 

“I would have gotten up eventually.”

 

“You managed to sit still for three days.” Tim reached out and pulled Bart’s arm around his shoulder. “If you were willing to get back on the field, there’s a better likelihood that you would have gotten up as soon as the surgery was over. Blue—help me out here.”

 

Bart glared at his other best friend, but Jaime grimaced. The eldest teen bit the inside of his mouth, running a hand through long hair before mimicking Tim’s actions. “Were you really trying to postpone leaving, man?”

 

Placing the gummy worms on the bed, the brunet fidgeted. He didn’t miss the way Tim’s attention turned to the crumpled bag of candy before returning to him. It was true—he _was_ trying to get out of physical therapy, but—“I haven’t even looked at my stupid leg since the day I got shot.”

 

Or at least, to examine it to a full degree. A heavy sigh left his lips as he slowly rotated around and allowed his legs some breathing room. There it was—the thick hunk of metal that incarcerated his leg. He pulled his arms away from both his friends in order to lift it more easily off the bed and gritted his teeth as his feet dangled over the ground.

 

The metal hinge pierced into his leg, squeaking and squirming as he tried (and muttered in pain) to bend it. Even off the ground, his legs dangled, one painfully heavier than the other. Bart wiggled his toes and sure enough, they wiggled. An uncomfortable sensation stretched down his leg.

 

It didn’t occur to him that Jaime and Tim were still in the room. Not until they brought themselves together and silently slung both Bart’s arms around their shoulder. “One,” Tim murmured under his breath, “two…three.”

 

Bart shuddered as his feet touched the floor. It was _cold._ He pressed up against Jaime instinctively, burying his face as close as he could in the other boy’s shoulder. In return, Jaime welcomed it. The brunet stumbled, good leg spazzing from the first time of use in three days. The other one dragged along the ground uncomfortably.

 

By the time they made it to the door, Beverley was there to meet them. A pair of crutches was tucked firmly beneath her arms, adjusted approximately to his size. In the hallway next to the entrance of his room was a chair. Tim and Jaime sat him down carefully and Bart sighed loudly. He wiggled his toes again. At least it was safe to know it was still his leg. Just not his own knee.

 

Beverley turned around and handed him both crutches. “You won’t begin physical therapy until you go back to Central City, of course. But you’ll need to get used to using crutches for a while to get around.”

 

“Can I keep the bottle to pee in?” Bart scowled, staring at the crutches as though they were the spawn of the devil. “This is so _retro._ ”

 

“ _Ew._ You just forgot about hygiene here, didn’t you?” Jaime made a face, inspecting the crutches for himself. For some reason, he turned to Tim. “Uh—hey. Why don’t you stand down the hallway, ese?”

 

Tim frowned.

 

“You know, so Bart will have a stopping point.”

 

Silence.

 

“It’ll be good for him.”

 

Silence.

 

“Dude just—let me talk to him for a little bit.” This time, Jaime rolled his eyes and pushed the other teen away, whether Tim agreed to it or not. He helped Bart up to his feet from one side as Beverley did with the other. “You know how to work these?”

 

Bart shook his head. “I’ve never damaged a leg before.”

 

“You, uh—you’ve been immobilized before though. You know. In the future.” Jaime’s eyes darted back and forth. He looked to the younger teen awkwardly and—well, that was to be expected. They didn’t speak about the future very often, or bring up the whole, Blue Beetle-became-a-slave-driver stuff.

 

“I could still walk,” Bart pointed out. Thankfully Beverley didn’t seem all too absorbed in the story. He supposed that nursing people and the occasional superhero on a daily basis made her numb to certain things. As he looked up, Jaime’s eyes kept darting back and forth from Tim and him, his head jerking as he did so. Bart crossed his arms, trying his best for a scowl.

 

“Look.” Jaime waved his hands around and gestured to Tim. “Truth is, I found him outside on a bench, _crushed._ I know you’re sulking about this leg thing bro, but Rob’s _trying._ ”

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        

Bart bit the inside of his mouth. Tim looked out of place in the middle of the hallway, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his jacket and shoulders hunched uncharacteristically.

 

He couldn’t help the small smile that curled against his lip.  Tim looked like a _dork._ Scraping his crutch against the floor, Bart jerkily shrugged. “I just….don’t want him to think it’s his fault for this.”

 

“And he doesn’t want you to think it’s _your_ fault. For time’s sake,” Jaime did another gesture—a wave with his hand that meant _been-there, done-that._ “Be sincere about your apology. Be angry later. I can’t stand having two of my best friends angry at each other, _comprende_?”

 

“Si.” The problem wouldn’t leave his mind, but knowing Tim was struggling too was strangely calming. Bart curled his fingers against the grips.

 

Beverley, taking her cue that the conversation was over, returned. She smiled sagely to both boys. “It’s very simple. I want you to use your crutches and walk down the aisle. Uh…sweetie?” Bev turned to Tim.

 

Tim bit his lip. “Robin.”

 

“Oh. _Oh._ Yes.” Wow—she didn’t faze one bit whenever scrubbing Bart down, but was certainly blushing now. Robin the Boy Wonder’s reputation exceeded him. Rolling his eyes, Bart couldn’t help the knot that suddenly twisted in his stomach. “Step back a little more. A little more…yes! Right there, that’s good.”

 

Bart dropped his weight and dangled his feet over the ground. “So, how do I work these? One-by-one? Do I get to like, hit people with them?”

 

 _WHACK._ “Ow!”

 

“Oh, uh. Sorry, Bev.” Wow, she looked angry. Turning his attention back to the crutches, Bart swung himself around. Yeah—that was easy. He eased his weight onto his good leg, careful not to strain his other one and wobbled forward. One step, two step. _CLACK. CLACK._ Green eyes kept to his feet. The crutches didn’t move him very far, but he was moving—

 

“You’re doing well.”

 

Looking up, Bart met Tim’s gaze. They locked eyes as he inched forward. _CLACK._ “Thanks.” Again, he felt the tightness in his throat and the knot in his stomach, watching every part of Tim’s face. His leader’s gaze was somber, eyebrows thin and together. Tim’s lips were pulled tightly, arms crossed. Even under the shades—“I don’t want you looking at me like that.”

 

_CLACK._

 

Tim startled. His grip tightened on his own arm, then he looked away.

 

Bart frowned. _CLACK. CLACK._ “I don’t want you to _not_ look at me either, you know.”

 

“I just want you to be able to walk.” Tim looked back up—but once he did, he grimaced, faltering again. “To run.”

 

“You think _I_ don’t want to? I’m like, dying of chicken pot pie over here.” _CLACK. CLACK. CLACK._

 

“That’s what I’m wondering.” _CLACK—_

Bart halted. He looked up to his leader—to his friend, and froze in his spot. His heart thrummed and a lump swelled in his throat. Instead of just looking at Tim, he… _looked_ at Tim.

 

No one was supposed to know what he was thinking. But…this was Tim. Dorky, socially-inept Battish Tim who knew how everyone ticked because of just the way he _watched._ And here he was, doing it again with the brunet on the other side of him.

 

Tim pulled his hands out of his pockets. They uncurled from fists and he held them out welcomingly. On the other side, Jaime and Beverley were at least _yards_ away. His best friend’s gaze softened and he shifted between his feet. Allowed _Tim_ to shine through beneath all of that Robin.

 

“I want you to be able to do what you’re great at. And come back. With…” Red bloomed in his cheeks and Tim twitched. “Us. Me. I’m…I’m sorry. Really, I am.”

 

Oh. Bart’s hands tightened around his crutches. He swiveled in his position and started again. _CLACK. CLACK. CLACK. CLACK—_ “Whoa—”

 

“ _Oof._ ” Tim stumbled backward six steps and engulfed Bart as the (ex)speedster fell forward, crutches and all. Bart grabbed the teen from behind, fisting Tim’s jacket with his hands and buried his face in the other teen’s neck and creating the weirdest hug ever.

 

Nuzzling, Bart took a deep breath. “Doc.”

 

Above him, Tim moved. He could feel the small contortions until—Tim smiled. Quiet and meaningful, just like Tim _always_ was. “McFly.”

 

“Mmsorry.” Bart’s hands tightened. “It’stotallyyourfaultandtotally _my_ faultand—I’m sorry.” He didn’t like arguing with Tim. It made him feel worse than _worse._

 

The space around them disappeared until they were simply torso against torso. Bart never hated the stupid crutches and the cast more until now as he realized he couldn’t hold Tim closer. However, Tim sighed softly—relief, most likely, and let his chin rest above Bart’s hair.

 

“I can agree to that,” he whispered, voice cracking.

 

“Yousmellnice.”

 

“It’s…Nightwing’s aftershave. Uh.” Grife, he could _hear_ the blush as it spread across the elder teen’s face. “You’re…really heavy.”

 

“Ha. I just buffed out. Got twenty pounds added to me. I’m ripped you know.” Pulling away slightly from his leader, Bart looked up and grinned gently. “Very ripped.”

 

“Noted.” Tim grinned back.

 

They were good now. Bart sighed loudly, content, and allowed himself back on his crutches. From the other side of the hall, both Jaime and Beverley clapped.

 

“That’s very good of you, Bart.” Bev smiled just as contently, though she looked a little weirded out. Jaime, too, with that usual look of confusion and constipation. (Then again, that was normal. Jaime tended to look at him funny.) “We’ll start taking strolls outside so you can get used to them.”

 

“Guess that means no more catheter.” Fumbling with his new method of transportation, Bart blew the hair out of his face. “Can I hang out with my friends for a bit?”

 

Beverley nodded. “I don’t see why not.” 

 

Before they returned to Bart’s room, Tim touched his shoulder. He looked down to the younger teen thoughtfully and fumbled. “I brought Back to the Future with me. If you want to watch them.”

 

“All three of them?” Bart grinned.

 

“Yeah.”

 

Without even thinking, Bart dropped his crutches. He threw his arms around Tim’s shoulders and hid a snicker as the teen struggled again. Jaime made a noise as the crutches hit his feet and Tim fumbled. Bart only laughed. “Crash _._ ”

 

**xxx**

 

Jaime stayed through most of the first movie before announcing he had to leave. There was something funny about his voice, and he looked everywhere but Bart’s face whenever conversing until the end where they fist bumped. Giddy, Bart managed to convince Tim to sit on the bed with him and immediately rested his head upon his leader’s shoulder. They curled up with two layers of blankets above them, and every so often, Bart would tap out Morse code on his knee. Every so often, Tim laughed.

 

“So how come you’re Doc and I’m Marty?” Bart murmured under his breath sleepily. He decided cuddling was nice—Tim and he needed to cuddle more often. Preferably with more pillows and less chicken pot pie around the room.

 

“I doubt very many people would trust you as a doctor, Bart.” Tim snorted as Bart pouted. “Uh. More so than me, at least.”

 

“I could be a doctor. _And_ Doc.” The brunet scoffed, half-offended and grinned languidly. “All I’d have to do is read a book about it.”

 

“That’s hardly the case.”

 

“ _Hah._ _Suuure._ But most people these days go to college and all they do is read. _Read, read, read._ ” Squinting at the screen, Bart snickered as the _Marty McFly_ on the screen began running away. “I memorize everything that I read. Even the moles on peoples’ faces and the page number it’s on.”

 

“So you’ve got an eidetic memory.” Tim turned his head slightly to take in the sight of his friend. “That could come in handy.”

 

“Of course! I’m telling you. If there was a book on the Batmobile, I could read it and build one of my own in ten seconds flat. And that’s me going _slow._ ” A gleam appeared in Bart’s eyes and he looked to the corner of his vision, where Tim was flashing a look. “What do you have against being Marty?”

 

“Well. I…used to have a crush on Michael J. Fox.” Huh. Tim made a face, a begrudging smile curling across his lips. “Back when I first watched this movie as a kid. Thought it was cool how he ripped on guitar.”

 

“Before your crush on Nightwing?”

 

“That was never proven.”

 

Grinning, Bart tossed his head back with a laugh. He inspected the retro movie and crossed his arms to mimic Tim’s gestures. “I think I’d look better in the vest.”

 

“Yeah.” The corner of Tim’s lips raised. “You probably would.”

 

 _Crash._ The thought warmed Bart from head to toe on the inside. He tucked himself closer under Tim’s grasp, no longer giving a damn about personal space. There was nothing he wanted to do more than babble and chatter and hear Tim’s voice as he responded and to see Tim’s reaction and watch Tim watch him. But this was good, too. Different.

 

He liked the video games and occasional sleepovers they had. And he liked this, too. Without thinking, he curled his hand around Tim’s and smiled when Tim squeezed back.

 

So they stayed silent, happy in each others’ company with Bart tapping Morse code on his knee. _N-I-C-E. S-P-E-C-T-A-C-U-L-A-R. C-R-A-S-H._

 

“Who taught you Morse code?” Tim turned his head. Actually—he’d been staring for quite a while.

 

“My dad.” Bart shrugged. Then to show off, he began rattling off the first few lines of _The Hunger Games_ against his knee. “For a bit. Then Red Robin. I’ve told you about him, right?”

 

“You’ve…mentioned him.”

 

“He was a friend in the future. My mentor for a short while.” What to say about Red Robin. Actually—what… _wasn’t_ there to say? Red Robin freed him. Taught Bart about his speed. Everything. Before he could go on a tangent on what made Red Robin so dear to him, something beeped.

 

Pulling his phone out of his pocket, Tim parted carefully from their hold. Faintly, Bart could hear Nightwing on the other end. “Yeah?” Pause. “Yeah, I’m coming.” Tim rolled his eyes and looked back to Bart as a faint laugh could be heard. “Nightwing says ‘hi.’”

 

“Cool.” Bart waved.

 

“Did I—?” Suddenly Tim cut himself off and turned red. His jaw tightened and he turned around, the lack of amusement evident on his face. “Did you ask _Wally_ about—he hung up.” After that, a Tim-ish smirk appeared across his face, mischievous and a little evil.

 

It was _exactly_ what Bart liked about him. “What’s he planning on asking Wally?”

 

“Ask Wally. Most likely Wally’s planning on asking the same thing.” Shaking his head, Tim looked to the speedster wryly and parted from the bed. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and his smirk widened slightly. “Those two know everything about each other. But the instant something is different, neither one can seem to function.”

 

“Must be a grown-up thing.” Bart snickered and thought back to the day Grandpa Barry insisted Wally and he would appreciate having little kids run around the house. He lay back in his bed and looked to his friend appreciatively. “Must be good to be in love, too. Or whatever the Flash and Nightwing call it.”

 

“You think?”

 

Bart nodded without reluctance. “More than anything.”

 

They watched each other. Behind Tim, the sun was finally setting for San Francisco. Orange light fluttered into the room, glowing against the origami jungles and safaris Bart had created for the room and illuminated against the Boy Wonder’s light skin. It carved a soft outline of his face—handsome, with ebony hair that tinted brown and a smile that looked broader in sunlight. In that moment, Bart wished he could remember that image forever.

 

He reached out, nearly childlike, and felt his heart flutter as Tim stepped forward. Tim’s lips twitched—like he wanted to say something, or do something. Faintly, Bart wondered if his lips were twitching too. Then—

 

“I gotta go on patrol.” Tim pulled away, voice heavy. “That’s…what the call was for.”

 

“Oh.” Um. Bart’s hand curled around Tim’s wrist and he thumbed the veins there. Disappointment bubbled in his stomach. “You’ll come back though, right?”

 

At this point, maybe it was stupid for him to even ask that. Tim’s lip twitched in the way that meant disbelief and his way of saying, _I-can’t-believe-you-just-asked-me-that._ “I’m not going to leave you.”

 

Crash. _“Crash._ ” The grin conjured across Bart’s face again.

 

He threw his arms around Tim, getting as much of his friend in his arms as he could, and hummed when Tim hugged back.

 

 


	5. New

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m not Kid Flash though.”

A few years back, Tim had declared to Bart that he didn’t imagine them having the same relationship as Dick and Wally. Nightwing and Flash had even yet to get together during that time. He’d tried his best not to butt in with Dick’s love life—which was hard, given how much baggage the pair had between each other regardless romance of or not. When he made the speculation to Bart when they were younger, he’d strictly meant their friendship would be different.

 

Oddly enough, Tim was wrong on both accounts. (Admittedly for one, still secretly on the other.)

 

Robin rubbed his hand, which still tingled from the touch of Bart’s fingers since the afternoon spent cuddling. _Him_ , the Boy Wonder. _Cuddling._ Just thinking about it made him want to laugh. Almost. Bart explicitly pointed out how he loved hanging out with the Tim ‘that didn’t compartmentalize.’ Just him.

 

It made him tingle even more. Swinging from one rooftop to another (a younger him would have joked he felt like Spider-Man), Tim landed in the same position as his elder brother (the thought made him smile—it only took three months for him to admit the mindset he had after knowing Nightwing for years.) Without looking up from his binoculars, Nightwing handed Tim a cup of hot cocoa.

 

“Thanks.”

 

“You spend the entire afternoon with Impulse?”

 

“Maybe.”

 

“You two are boring. I’ll bet all you did was sit there and watch _Back to the Future_ over and over.” Beneath his binoculars, Dick held an amused smirk and took a sip of his own cocoa.

 

“Opposed to both you and Flash at our age wrestling for the remote on the couch until Miss Martian had to inspect both of you for broken body parts?” Tim mused. He sipped his cocoa casually and followed Nightwing’s gaze with his own pair of binoculars. So far it had been a slow night—two bank robberies, one thug trying to steal an old lady’s purse.

 

“We still do that.”

 

“Cute.” Laughing softly under his breath, he matched Nightwing’s snicker. “So, can I ask you something?”

 

They’d always had an odd connection. When Tim became the third Robin, he knew most of Nightwing’s concern came from after Jason Todd fell in battle. Now, however, after proving himself to be worthy of the mask and pixie booths it made him happy to know Nightwing’s concern mostly came as a doting brother. Well—most of the time.

 

As soon as he asked the question, Nightwing tore away from his binoculars, patrol forgotten. He arched an eyebrow in Tim’s direction, lips tightening. “Uh…sure. What’s the problem?”

 

“How did you know you were in love with Wally?”

 

The binoculars in Dick’s hands twitched before falling out of his hands. Fortunately Tim hadn’t moved from his spot and instead was tracking a seagull as it circled the sky. From the corner of his eye he could see Nightwing’s cheeks blaze red.

 

“Um.”

 

Sure—kind-hearted, stern leader of the Justice League’s stealth team. Master of his own feelings was a different case. Tim reached down for the bag of Arby’s food he knew Dick had bought before patrol and passed the carton of curly fries. Batman would have killed them for goofing.

 

Nightwing nudged him, a quiet chuckle under his breath. “ _Why_ would you ask me that?”

 

“Curiosity.” Tim shrugged and nibbled on a fry. “Whelmed?”

 

“Over.” Dick went back to scouting the scene. “He ran into a wall and broke his nose.”

 

Robin blinked. This time he pulled away and turned his head to Nightwing—who, in retrospect, looked content with his answer. Slowly, Tim ran the words on his tongue. “He ran into a wall.”

 

“And broke his nose,” Dick confirmed. “Took about two months before it healed. That’s why it’s crooked.” When he didn’t get a response from the young Robin, Nightwing continued. The corner of his lip raised, disappearing from amusement to affectionate. “It was back when I was eleven and he was thirteen. Kid _Idiot_ wanted to try vibrating through a wall even though he’d just gotten his powers a few months before. You know me. First Boy Wonder, ward to Batman. Don’t know _why_ , but he wanted to impress me. The way he went about it was that if he went fast enough, his molecules would impact with the wall’s and he’d somehow end up on the other side.”

 

“But he crashed,” Tim speculated. He couldn’t help his own smirk. The idea that Wally West, the first Kid Flash and the third Flash broke his nose was a funny one.

 

“The first time he only got a nosebleed.” Nightwing snorted, reaching for another French fry. “Then after I stopped _laughing_ , he tried again and broke his nose. After he came back to consciousness and ragged on me for laughing at him, he laughed too. I realized at that point that we were going to be friends for life. The… _love_ part came later. I dated Zee, he dated Artemis. Which didn’t really matter, so long as we were still friends and what not. Then, you know. Stuff happened.”

 

He stopped mid-nibble and frowned. Altogether, he broke stature and turned around until his back touched the end of the rooftop. Tim took his cue to drop his binoculars and bit his lip. He’d heard quite a bit of went on between Dick and Wally before they got together. It was hard not to. Between them, there was nearly a decade of friendship that struggled for balance on a thin scale before they could finally get together.

 

“You know. He quit the hero business and I respected that. I couldn’t drag him back in the life—he needed to want it. So Artemis and he both left. And it left a gap An…ache. Even if I couldn’t see him every day, I could still _see_ him. It wasn’t enough. I, uh. I wanted him.” Nightwing swallowed hard and reached for their Coke. He took a long sip, then passed it to Tim.

 

“He’ll make a good brother-in-law.” Tim rubbed the straw between his fingers and hid a grin as Nightwing made a soft, wry sound.

 

“No one knows about that, right?”

 

“I think there’s a betting pool going around.”

 

“Of course there is. So, why’d you ask?” Nightwing crossed his arms and looked at his brother expectantly. “You thinking about asking Impulse out?”

 

“Don’t tell me there’s a betting pool for that.”

 

“Maybe. I’m the one who started it.”

 

“Of course you did.” Still, Robin felt the heat burn in his cheeks and sighed. He leaned his head back against the platform and curled a hand protectively over the other again. He wanted to kiss Bart. In the last moments of his visit as the sun fluttered about the room, where it graced Bart’s face. Highlighted the light freckles on his cheeks, made the shine in his eyes seem brighter.

 

It was a happy moment.

 

But still not entirely.

 

“How was he when you saw him?” Nightwing prodded him in the knee, bringing the teen out of his thoughts. Even looking back up to Dick, there was no doubt to the concern upon his face. Sure—one day Bart may be his cousin-in-law. Not to mention Dick had a soft spot for anyone with super speed.

 

“Different.” Tim bit the inside of his mouth. “I don’t think he realizes it though.”

 

“The worst I’d ever been through with Wally was a broken arm. Other than the obvious.” The elder bird rotated his wrist as though to shrug off the tale—the one that _earned_ Wally his title as the third Flash. “We’re talking about a kid that’s been through an apocalypse though.”

 

“It’s showing. On his face, I mean.” Turning his head, Robin picked up the discarded drink and molded his fingers firmly against it. He squeezed the cup firmly in his hand. “It’s like he’s stopped being the kid that showed up from the future and is this kid that’s trying to _be_ his future. Only with a smile. A forced one.”

 

The drink crumpled under his grasp.

 

“He’s something more than an impulsive hero now, but less than what he needs to be.” Tim shrugged. “I can’t help but think I brought that out in him.”

 

“Sure. You got him shot in the knee.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

“Welcome. Hey—didn’t mean to upset you. Honest.” Nightwing leaped from his spot and set himself in front of his younger brother. He reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder, a frown firm on his face. “What you did was set up something new for him. The same thing happened after your dad died—remember?”

 

Tim frowned. Of course he did. “Bart took me out.”

 

“And you and I cuddled.”

 

“And you and I cuddled.”

 

“The best you can do is ride it out until he figures it out. Take it from me.” Dick squeezed Tim’s shoulder securely. A smile appeared across his lips, quiet and calculating, and clearly serious. “They’re runners for a reason. The only ones that can be in their shoes. And they always come back.”

 

 _Always._ Nightwing was right on that account. Bart had yet to fail him—Tim just feared the worse. After all—there was always the possibility that losing Bart may have been less painful than gaining a different one. He shoved that thought out of the way and looked back up to Dick, returning his smile. Sure—a comparison made years ago sounded ridiculous. But having a friendship with a speedster that fell upon Bart and him was honorable. “Thanks.”

 

“No problem. I.” Dick twitched. “I didn’t know you liked him so much.”

 

Tim blinked. Wait. He stared at his brother as though the man had grown another head and felt his eyebrows raise to his hairline. Beneath the mask his eyes widened in disbelief and he swallowed hard. Wow. _Wow._  

 

“Something wrong?”

 

“Nothing,” Tim said quickly. He pressed a hand to his face and dipped his head back. Man, was he _stupid._ “I just. I…I like Bart.”

 

**xxx**

“Grandma?”

 

“Yes, honey?”

 

“How do you know when you like someone?” Bart looked up tentatively from his armchair. Aunt Dawn was perched happily on his lap, satisfied to be in the presence of her nephew. Someone had recently bought her a bright pink bunny hat, which Bart proudly declared look beautiful on her. Once in a while he would reach over the nearby table and wipe the saliva from her lips. Dawn was the drooler, Don was the pooper.

 

From the bed, Grandma Iris was packing away the last of gifts the young speedster received while under care. The chicken pot pie was all gone, thanks to Wally who decided to eat most of it (Bart and he got into a painful eating contest.) His origami safari had been graciously donated to all of the kids in the childcare wing at the hospital. Once Wally and Grandpa Barry were done shipping his stuff back to Jay and Joan’s house, they would be coming back to pick up Grandma and him so he could finally go home. He missed Joan’s home cooked meals that _weren’t_ pot pie. (He never thought he could be so sick of it.)

 

Grandma Iris smiled her beautiful warm smile and buckled the last suitcase. “Well…I suppose it’s a feeling you get whenever you’re around someone. One that’s different from how you feel around everyone else.”

 

“How’d you know you liked Grandpa?” Biting his lip, the brunet looked down to the bag of gummy worms and failed to contain a smile. Tim had visited every day since he started on crutches. They would take long walks through the hallways or go to the backyard, where many of the patients went for fresh air. Earlier that day, they’d even had lunch in the cafeteria.

 

“That’s a broad question.” Grandma Iris hummed softly and looked back to her future grandson. In return, Bart could feel the smile as it curled across his lips and the blush as it glowed in his cheeks. No secret went unheard when it was Grandma. She always knew what was going on. “I’d have to say around the time your Grandpa Barry stumbled when he asked me out on a date. He looked like a nervous puppy.”

 

“Really?” He never got the chance to hear the story of how his grandparents got together; not since they were both killed before he turned the cheerful age of five. Grandpa acting like a nervous puppy wasn’t a far stretch. He reminded Bart of a golden retriever. (Wally was a husky. Huskies could get cranky sometimes.)

 

“He still owns the bowtie he wore on our first date. He wore it again when he proposed.” The smile broadened across her face, a wistful sigh falling out of her lips. Naturally, she took a tissue and wiped Aunt Dawn’s face once again before drool could dribble onto Bart’s lap. As she pulled her daughter in her arms, Bart stood to his feet and hooked both crutches beneath him.

 

Aunt Dawn whimpered, clearly not happy she’d been taken off her nephew’s lap. “Bart! Bart!”

 

“Aw, sorry.” He didn’t have a free hand to hold her. The brunet bit the inside of his mouth, watching as Aunt Dawn grew more agitated. When she didn’t get her way, she would sulk, bury her mother’s neck, and give the silent treatment for like, two whole minutes.

 

“So why the questions, honey?” Iris patted her daughter sympathetically on the back and laughed softly as Dawn pouted. “Is there someone you have your eye on?”

 

“I think I do.” It was always easy talking to both Barry and Iris. Most kids his age, he knew, would rather not go through complicated issues with the ‘rents. Part of why it was different, Bart presumed, stemmed from the fact Barry and Iris were his grandparents. It always made his chest tingle when they tried to care for him like he was their third child. So, he felt himself turn red again and squirm under Grandma Iris’s gaze. “But I’veneverlikedsomeonebefore.”

 

Not like this. He felt a strong attachment to certain people in the future, but never associated it with _liking_ them. Not like how Dick and Wally liked each other, and certainly not like how Grandma and Grandpa were already married. Looking to the bag of gummy worms Tim had gotten him earlier, Bart decided he definitely liked Tim that way, though. It was the brightest part of his day whenever Tim visited after school and patrol.

 

Fortunately after years of being married to a speedster, Grandpa Iris was able to decipher what he’d just said. She placed a hand on his shoulder, the smile on her face widening even more. “That’s _great_ to hear, Bart. Is it someone from school? Someone on the team?”

 

“It’suh.” Bart bit his lip and bashfully matched his grandmother’s smile before rocking between the crutches. Well. As much as he could with only one leg. “It’sRobin.”

 

“Robin.” Much to his surprise, Iris’s eyebrow arched in the air. She smiled, not appalled the slightest at her grandson’s confession. After all, Wally was dating a guy. For her to be angry at him for liking Tim would have been farfetched. “He’s a cute one.”

 

“You think?” The young brunet’s voice raised a pitch and his face turned an even darker shade of red.

 

Grandma ruffled his hair, a quiet laugh radiating from her lips. She pressed a kiss to his forehead and smiled gently. “Kid Flash and Robin have always been best friends. Batman may be a little… _off-putting_ , but he does raise good kids. Robin is the one that’s been sneaking into your room past visiting hours, am I right?”

 

“You can only visit during certain hours?” That explained why the past few nights were spent hauling Tim through the window. He just thought it was for fun. When Grandma Iris gave him the questioning look that usually meant he did something bad unintentionally, Bart decided to change the subject. “I’m not Kid Flash though.”

 

Actually, that thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. It was months after Bart first arrived before Wally even donned the red and yellow suit again. Not temporarily, either. But Kid Flash wasn’t a _kid_ anymore. As the due date of the twins crept closer, Grandpa confided in Bart he was ready to retire. He’d worn the suit for a total of sixteen years. Even if he didn’t realize it right away, part of what made being the Flash so special was that it was a title that was passed down—passing the baton to the next guy, who could wear the suit just as well and carry on the legacy.

 

So, that meant after five months of being on the hero roster again, the Kid Flash suit was hung up once again in favor of a scarlet one—one Wally wore proudly and grinned like in all the photos of when he was Bart’s age.

 

Crossing _Kid Flash_ with his own self suddenly made Bart frown. He rested an elbow against his crutch and scratched his hair. Wally had given the brunet his blessing to put the suit on once the Invasion had been good and done with, but so much happened that it never occurred.   _Him. Kid Flash_.

 

He was caught off guard once again when Grandma Iris pulled him out of his thoughts. She placed a hand on the small of his back and looked to her, green eyes as gorgeous as ever. If it was anyone who understood the Flash legacy, she did.

 

“You fit the boots as one.” Her fingers padded his spine and rested on his shoulder. “Your name may not be Kid Flash, but you’re still the proud partner of the Flash. I’m glad to see you and Robin are friends.”

 

Hm. That invoked another thought in his mind, dropping everything prior to that moment.

 

The sound of feet pounding the ground pulled him out of his thoughts before he could dwell on what Grandma just said. Wally and Barry both appeared at the entrance of the room. Once they caught sight of the youngest speedster on his crutches, they sported the same smile. Bart couldn’t help but tap his fingers against his crutches. His smile tightened, even if unintentional as he watched both of them.

 

Grandma Iris walked over to Grandpa and placed a kiss on his cheek. “Is Donny with Jay and Joan?”

 

“Of course.” Grandpa Barry grinned and reached for Dawn. He looked over to Bart once again and slung an arm around the boy’s shoulders. “We’ve got all the food prepared, B. Everyone’s ready to see you out of the hospital.”

 

“Crash.” He’d spent five days altogether in medical care. Ever since Tim visited he made the effort of keeping on his feet. After all, they both had the same goal in mind: to have Bart back running and on missions as soon as possible. However—being in speedster-limbo without a proper running leg along a sudden crush on one of his best friends wasn’t the only thing that had been on his mind. Grandma Iris mentioning the Kid Flash thing just evoked more thoughts.

 

Bart was uncharacteristically quiet while Grandpa Barry scooped up his wife for the run back. Wally had picked him up, grunting at the sudden-added twenty pounds and darted off after his uncle. He rolled his eyes as naturally, Barry kicked up his speed to make it home faster.

 

“Showoff,” the redhead declared.

 

Unable to contain his amusement, Bart grinned. He gripped his crutches, which were gripped tightly in his grasp and looked up to his cousin curiously. “Do you ever feel weird being the Flash now?”

 

Wally blinked, looking down at his cousin instead of the road in front of him. “Uh—not really. Not anymore. Well—” The question evoked a series of different faces upon Wally’s face—all scrunchy and confused. “I mean, _why_?”

 

“No reason,” Bart said quickly. Like Wally would buy that.

 

“Dude, I’ve been Keystone City’s Flash for two years now.” A frown fell across the redhead’s face, clearly suspicious. Usually it was Wally that Bart had a hard time getting past. “You’ve run _with_ me. So, something wrong?”

 

“Nothing’s _wrong._ I’m not in trouble for doing something bad or anything.” Bart frowned back at Wally. According to Dick, those two years ago when Kid Flash and Impulse were assigned alongside each other for missions, they acted like bickering, affectionate brothers. Bart liked to think they had a healthy relationship. Still, when Wally gave him a drilling look that clearly said ‘ _spill it, kid_ ,’ he knew better than to lie through his teeth. Not completely, anyway.

 

They stopped somewhere in Arizona, where Wally conveniently placed him on a park bench, rested Bart’s new friends (the crutches—lefty and righty) on the side and plopped next to his younger cousin. “Okay. So spill.”

 

“ _Nothing._ Gosh, I just—” Wally’s annoyance cut through any of Bart’s ability to lie. He sighed and tilted his head back. Out of one problem, into another. “You know how you told me that I need to get over being shot in the leg and move on with my life?”

 

The elder speedster twitched, a wry smile curling at his lip. “I remember saying that in a _nicer_ way.”

 

“Yeah, well. I need it.” Bart frowned, tangling his hands together. “One of those stories with a spirit guide and all coming-on-age-y like Harry Potter. Or Katniss—you know, without a duel to the death. I don’t think nightlok berries actually exist—” He cut himself off, realizing he was going on a tangent when Wally gave him a look. Green eyes flashed to the man next to him, hopeful and pleading. So what—he was rambling. But he was _serious._ “I—I want to be your partner.”

 

Silence.

 

Rather than blowing up in Bart’s face for the young speedster being too broad, Wally’s face contorted. The brunet couldn’t help his awkward shrug—something he was sure he’d learned from Wally, anyway. His cousin looked to him, gaze calculating and thoughtful, and placed a hand on his leg. “Kid…you already _are_ my partner.”

 

“No. I was _stuck_ when I first arrived because my time machine busted. And there isn’t an easy way to simply go _forward_ in time. So you guys decided the _best_ decision for me would be to stay with Joan and Joan and Jay and all of you would raise me as a hero since I already had the speed.” Bart shook his head fitfully and frowned at the ground. “I’m not talking about just running alongside you, ‘cuzzo. I’m talking about actually _doing_ something now that everything is over so I can actually be _proud_ of myself.”

 

“Did you talk to Uncle Barry about this?”

 

“You kind of stopped me before I could.”

 

He wasn’t sure how to accept Wally’s thoughtful look from then on. Ever since the accident, all of his friends looked at him funny. Bart knew they tiptoed around him like he would blow up at any moment. The problem with that was he didn’t know how to change their opinion. They acted like the explosion and damage _changed_ him.

 

And it didn’t. Not on the outside, anyway. He was _always_ aware of what he was doing, just less _vocal_ and more joke-y about it.

 

“Ugh,” was what Wally said to pull him out of his thoughts. The elder speedster pressed a hand to his face and leaned his head back. He sucked in a breath. “Wow. Okay.”

 

“Sorry.” Immediately, Bart reached for his crutches. He knew he couldn’t get away, but heart-to-hearts with Wally didn’t always end with them seeing eye-to-eye.

 

“No—wait.” Wally reached out, grabbing his little cousin firm by the arm before he could get away. The redhead stood to his feet and helped Bart gather himself. He bit the inside of his mouth, the doubt and uncertainty in his eyes. But he smiled. Albeit, sheepishly. “Look, I think it’s great that you’re trying to pick up what’s left after you finished your…mission. All the family and I want you to do is live your life and enjoy it. You deserve that much.”

 

“What if I don’t want that?” Bart frowned. He raised his head, meeting Wally’s expectant gaze. “ _You_ were my age when you started wondering if things could be different. And you ended up founding Young Justice with Nightwing and Aqualad and Superboy.”

 

“I didn’t have the mission to stop an apocalypse on my shoulders. Plus—” A red eyebrow darted in the air as he recalled the incident. “That entire mission happened because we were pissed. Red Arrow walked out on the league. We…found an alternative.”

 

“Yeah, but—” Bart stopped himself. He was pissed at the _world_ for what had happened. Pissed at himself for making it happen. Scared to even be in this situation. The brunet’s mouth fell open, but he was empty of any words. There was nothing to say. This time, Wally didn’t badger him for an answer.

 

Instead the elder cousin’s face softened. He wrapped a hand around Bart’s shoulders and squeezed tightly. They weren’t the same height. The way Wally held him made Bart feel like a little kid again. “Look. Nightwing and I already discussed it. We’re going to make sure you get better in the next few weeks. That’s _your_ main priority right now. And after that, we’ll go from there. Whether or not Effie Trinket announces your name at District _Central City_ , or you get whisked off to Hogwarts, you’ve got family and teammates that’ll be supportive of whatever you choose. Alright?”

 

“Alright.” Bart just wished he could do more for everyone. He allowed his cousin to scoop him up, gripping both crutches tightly into him. The cast on his leg dangled heavily—and uncomfortably, but there was no way to adjust it.

 

“Anything else you want to talk to me about?” Wally jostled him carefully.

 

“I—what do you do if you like somebody?” Bart scratched his head and looked to his cousin thoughtfully. “You’ve basically been dating Nightwing since you met, right?”

 

“I— _no_ , we _didn’t._ I mean—well—” Really. Making Wally sputter was one of his favorite past times. The redhead looked to Bart once again, his lips twitching goofily as he ran again, the young teen in tow. “Nevermind. You want to impress someone?”

 

“Maybe.” Red bloomed in Bart’s cheeks.

 

“Get ‘em some flowers. Chocolate’s good, so long as she isn’t allergic to it.” Nonchalantly, Wally shrugged. “And even if she is, you could eat it yourself. Always worked for me. Ask her out on a date.”

 

“A date.” Bart twitched. “What do you actually do on a _date_?” The last time he’d went on one of those was taking Tim out to see his parents’ future graveyard. Even he was smart enough to know that wasn’t a good idea.

 

Again, Wally got that goofy look on his face. The younger teen rolled his eyes, positive that his older cousin was thinking of his boyfriend in some sickeningly twisted way. “Well, if you want the _PG-13_ version, I’d say holding hands is still good. Movies are still considered cool, right?”

 

“Sure.” Holding hands and watching movies. If _that_ was all it took, then Tim and he must have gone on at least a kajillion dates already. Bart’s lips stretched into a grin at the thought. “Yeah. _Cool._ ”

 

There was a subtle break in their conversation; one so quick that Bart didn’t notice. Wally looked to him, a relief across his demeanor and clearly happy to have helped Bart in some different way. “I’m going to ask Dick if he wants to move in with me.”

 

Blink. Blink, blink. “Wait, really?”

 

“Uh— _yeah_ , really.” Green eyes narrowed in disbelief. “It’s a big step.”

 

“I thought he already lived with you. His clothes are there, he has his own toothbrush—plus every time I come over he’s the one that answers the door.” Bart listed off tic marks with his fingers and looked to the redhead expectantly. The amount of times he’d seen Dick Grayson in his boxers was basically uncountable. “You sure _you_ didn’t move in with _him_?”

 

“He doesn’t live with me. Not _yet_ anyway. Otherwise he owes me rent.” Wally’s face twisted into a grimace.

 

Bart shrugged. “He does Grandpa Barry’s taxes, too. Skip asking him to move in—ask if he wants to get married.”

 

“Agh—just—shut up, Bart.”

 

**xxx**

Later that night, Bart’s return was spent with the entire family. That meant the Garricks, the Allens, and the Wests all in one household. Joan made Bart’s _second_ favorite meal in the entire world (after everybody groaned at the thought of even touching pot pie)—lasagna.  The entire family asked him about his stay at the hospital, informed him of the schoolwork he missed, and gave him Jell-O. That was something Wally and he agreed on—food that jiggled was food that needed to be eaten.

 

Dick was there too. (Bart made a jibe at Wally, Wally elbowed him, and an oblivious Dick advised Wally to behave. _Ha._ )  Like the rest of his teammates, Dick seemed to be taking in the whole sight of Bart, and wondering what the best plan of action was. Every time the brunet wasn’t with his cousin, co-op leader, or grandfather, he would watch the three converse grimly, and pretend not to notice when they looked in his direction.

 

It forced Bart to shove the bubbling irritation away. After all, the twins were also happy that he was within state boundaries so they could poop, drool, and climb on top of him. He got presents too. At the end of the night, Bart was given a nice Sailor Moon poster to place on his wall and the Blu-Ray copies of Back to the Future 1, 2, and 3. (The last three had been gifts from Tim, Dick explained. He wanted to come, but was caught up in a case with Batman.)

 

Once people started leaving, Bart was left with Barry and Wally on the couch. Joan and Jay decided to call an early night once everything was cleaned, and Dick informed Wally he would be going back to Bludhaven for patrol before kissing him on the cheek. ( _“Married._ ” “Shut _up_ , Bart.”)

 

Resting in his hand were two nearly-identical rings. Flash rings. One was worn out compared to the other, made with thinner plastic that had broken and been taped back together. Bart recognized the designs immediately—one was custom for Wally, the other for Grandpa. “Okay, so you’re the Flash and you’re the Flash, too. What are these for?”

 

Barry chuckled warmly and exchanged looks with his nephew, who smirked. He reached over and ruffled Bart’s hair. “The ring _I_ gave you is the first ring I ever wore as the Flash. The prototype.”

 

“And the ring _I_ gave you was the one Barry gave me when I became Kid Flash.” Wally nudged him lightly in the arm.

 

“Oh.” Bart blinked, inspecting the rings for himself. They were thicker than his Impulse ring—something that he hadn’t worn in what felt like ages. The ring he wore had always been custom-fitted from the future, so of course it was different.

 

“It’s…hard when you have to come back from an injury like this. I’ve had my fair share of hits to the leg over the years.” Barry patted Bart on the back. “The important thing is you move on from it. Don’t focus on the injury. Move forward. Alright?”

 

“Uh…thanks.” Bart nodded, looking between his smiling cousin and proud grandfather.

 

At the end of the night, he stacked his DVDs next to his laptop on the desk. Wally hung the poster on his door, even if he kept criticizing Dick for such a lousy present. The young speedster lay in his bed, inspecting both rings. His family believed in him. _That_ was why they’d given the rings to him.

 

Three years ago, he didn’t even _have_ a family. Not like the one he had now.

 

He’d had Red Robin and Nightwing, both whom he considered his mentors. They were brothers and—after over thirty years of legal binding, Red had explained to him, still neither one would admit it was true. The first Nightwing— _Dick Grayson_ was the one that always poked fun between them. He was also the only one allowed to call the second Nightwing ‘Dami.’

 

Red Robin and Nightwing meant the world to him those years ago.

 

Right after they found him, face buried in the snow and dying from starvation, they had taken him back to a bunker. It had been hollowed out beneath an old Target located somewhere in Gotham City, with boxes upon boxes of material and tech that had been collected throughout at least forty years. First and foremost, they fed him. When he regained awareness of their actions, he would watch them insert the food to a device to determine the concentration of _Reach formula_ in it. Even organic things, like apples or oranges.

 

He never would have noticed—and according to them, Bart was more aware of his surroundings than other metas and humans were. It all came down to his superspeed and his metabolism. After eating enough to gain mobility and use his powers, they devised a training regiment for him—one worthy of all three Flashes.

 

“Did you read all the books that I gave you?”

 

“Yeah.” Bart, at the age of twelve, flipped through the pages of the last book in his pile for the umpteenth time, in sureness that he’d read every bit of information. Nightwing and Red Robin weren’t Flashes—far from it. They’d been trained by the Batman. The first Robin—which was apparently like the training wheels to becoming your own hero—became the first Nightwing, then for a short period became the second Batman.

 

Beneath the cowl, Red Robin offered a smile. Bart learned quickly that the man was very serious about his job. Red Robin, Nightwing and a woman named ‘Brown’ (Barked in combat by Nightwing, for some silly mistake) were the only protégés of the original Batman left. Nightwing and Brown were married, with a five-year-old daughter they cared deeply for.

 

Red Robin was ambitious. Broad, with his plans, with an intellect that Bart admired and was intimidated by. The way he looked at Bart as though the speedster was a secret plan unnerved him from time-to-time—

 

“I brought you cookies.”

 

—Until he would do something that seemed opposite of his character. Bart muttered a thank you as he moved on to the next set of history books. Nibbling on the cookie and sifting through pages took him less than thirty seconds, flat. As he finished up the book, he pushed it away and looked back up to his savior with a frown. “It’s… _a lot._ I don’t understand how so much could have gone on and then—and then the League could still have _lost._ ”

 

“Alien intelligence isn’t something we could have afforded to miscalculate.” Red Robin pulled out the seat next to Bart and sat down. Woefully, he shook his head and reached for another cookie. “We knew that back then. But they still managed to outsmart us. Before we managed to disband the Light, a lot of it went awry.”

 

“So you were a part of it.”

 

“Of course I was.”

 

“Which Robin were you? Dick Grayson? Jason Todd? Tim Drake? Nightwing’s Damian Wayne—right?” Bart reached for a separate book that contained history of the Bat Family and frowned. “He sounds like a brat.”

 

“That one was written by me.” A smirk. Bart almost laughed.

 

In moments like these, the old men still managed to smile and let themselves go. The young boy placed both of them around their fifties, having seen more than needed in their time. It amazed Bart how they obliged to take him in and nurture him like one of their own. Like family.

 

“Why won’t you just tell me which ones you were?” Except—in the two months Red Robin and Nightwing nurtured him, they never once gave hint to their true identity. They made him a suit; a frictionless material customized specifically for a speedster to push his limits. He insisted on going on patrol with them, to give food to those who needed it and knock out thugs that still stole stealing old women’s purses.

 

When he asked them last time on patrol why they never did anything big, he never got an answer.

 

The look he gave Red Robin was met with an upsetting silence; one that meant no matter how hard Bart pried, he wouldn’t get an answer.

 

Only Red Robin and he were still at the bunker. Nightwing had gone home with Brown hours ago with their daughter. When Red asked if Bart wanted to do the same, the young boy refused and insisted on reading every bit of history he needed. After all—he trusted Red. There was a purpose they weren’t telling him.

 

“Did you read all the books regarding speedsters?”

 

“Of course I did.” Even though most of the notes had been like bedtime stories for Bart when he was little.

 

Jay Garrick had been the first Flash in the 1940s after a chemistry experiment had gone wrong. Decades later, he passed on the formula to his grandfather and the second flash—Barry Allen. The cycle went on, and once Grandpa Barry married Grandma Iris, Wally West—her nephew—stole the formula and became the very first Kid Flash. Years later before Bart’s dad and Aunt Dawn were born, Grandpa had died. Wally West came out of retirement and, in honor of his mentor, became the third Flash.

 

After that, nothing. Bart was still old enough to remember his parents—Dad had married Mom, and Aunt Dawn and he then on to become the Tornado Twins. After Wally West, no one picked up the Flash uniform again.

 

“It went on into all these complicated stories about the league’s covert team and how they tried to protect the earth while six of the leaguers were in deep space.” Bart pulled the book from beneath him—one about all the speedsters that ever existed, but particularly of what kind of pedigree Bart arrived from. In neat handwriting at the bottom of the book was the name, _Dick Grayson._

The most Bart knew was that Grayson was the first Robin and the first Nightwing. Red and the second Nightwing were cautious of giving him books about the Bats. No deaths; nothing of what became of them after the year 2025.

 

“You can see how that went,” Red Robin muttered quietly.

 

Nodding slowly, Bart turned pages of the book and swallowed hard. “Every single one of them made a name for themselves. But when the time came, Jay Garrick gave the blessing to my grandfather to become the second Flash. After _Grandpa_ died, his nephew brought it upon himself to become the new Flash. Neither Aunt Dawn nor Dad even thought about picking up the cowl. They were a team that worked together. One inheriting the Flash title meant abandoning the other. But…

 

“It’s like how there’ve been five Robins in the past and four Batgirls. You guys brought it upon yourselves to inherit the title to honor the name and prove you were worthy of it. Right?” Looking up, Bart took in the sight of the man sitting across from him and frowned thoughtfully. “The first Nightwing became Batman, after so many years of fighting alongside him. Damian Wayne became his Robin, and…years, _years_ later, to honor his Batman’s name, he became the second Nightwing.”

 

“Your case is different.” Red Robin flipped another page of the Flash book, revealing a picture of Grandpa Barry taken back when he was still alive. Alongside him was Kid Flash, who was only a little bit older than Bart himself in the picture. He held a smirk across his face, smug and excited like it was the happiest time of his life. “You’ve been bred into a family of heroes. It’s in your blood.”

 

“Right.” Except, he’d been wearing the inhibitor collar for as long as he could remember. It wasn’t until recently that he had full reign over his powers again. Even then there was no one with his powers that could teach him how every molecule of his entity worked—just two men who relied on written down notes and memories of the past.

 

The silence that followed their conversation went unnoticed. Bart was too busy in his ministrations to say another word. When someone did say something, however, it was Red Robin.

 

The man stood up from his spot, disappearing among the clutter of boxes and old books (when Bart first arrived, Nightwing bragged ‘The Manor’ had more; however, where the ‘Manor’ actually existed, Bart didn’t know.) When he returned, he placed a simple spiral bound notebook in front of Bart. A crumpled sticky note held its place on the cover, simply saying— _Wally West, Dick Grayson._ The pages were a putrid shade of yellow, with blue lines on the inside having faded over time.

 

The black ink on the pages, however, looked as fresh as the day before.

 

“Read it,” Red Robin advised.

 

It took five minutes. The notes were all over the place, blended with two different handwritings and formulas that meant absolutely nothing to the brunet. He read over it three times, soaking in the information for certainty and—

 

“It’s a time machine.” Bart halted. He cocked his head to the man, eyes wide and brows raised beneath his bangs incredibly.

 

Red Robin nodded slowly, and he looked to Bart as though he was treading on careful water. “The notebook still has most of the notes preserved from when Dick and the Flash made it back in 2010.”

 

“That’s nearly half a _century_ ago.”

 

“They never got around to making one. Making a time machine and going back in time would have held no real purpose. But for us…” Red Robin trailed off, looking poignantly in Bart’s direction. Suddenly it clicked in his mind.

 

“You’ve had me reading history books about all these heroes because…because you want to go back in time?” Bart blinked wildly and watched the man. “You want to go back and stop all the major occurrences where the league lost and the Reach gained the upper hand. For the future. Am—am I right?”

 

“I want _you_ to do it.”

 

Bart felt his heart beat faster. It all made sense. All the history he’d read, everything they had been telling him—they’d been training him for a mission without ever telling him. And this— _this_ was the proposal right here.

 

“We’ve been looking for a descendent of the Allens for a while now.” For the first time since he knew the man, Red Robin looked hesitant of what to say next. “It was a stretch when we found you—but we did. And since then, it seemed like a plausible idea. Bart, it would mean changing the stakes big time if you went back in time and—”

 

“Crashed the mode. To create a better future,” Bart finished. “I’ll do it.”

 

The surprise registered on Red Robin’s face. Whether it was from the quick decision or the fact Bart had figured out the plan so fast, he wasn’t sure. The man stared at him hesitantly, his eyebrows low and mouth open. “Are you sure?”

 

“You want me to go back into the past and fix _everything_ bad that’s happened. Including in the history book where Blue Beetle was turned into a villain.” Nodding quickly, Bart picked up the notebook again and squeezed it tightly between his fingers. “I’ll do it. I’ll save Grandpa, and Grandma. And everyone. I’ll go back to the past for you.” 


	6. Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So—” Bart started, and he whipped both gifts out victoriously. Tim looked to him with surprise as the speedster held them out. “This is, uh—well. Wally told me that if I liked someone, then…I should get them a gift. Flowers and chocolate. Fortunately both of them were around the house because I only got about three hobbles out the door before Jay carried me back inside into my room and put the baby proof gate on the door—which, by the way, is hard to open when you’ve got crutches. Like, I tried to kick it over and see if I could substitute one of them like Tommy’s screwdriver off of Rugrats, but wow, it just doesn’t work, and those gates are tough. Forget about trying to take Amazo down with weapons, let’s just baby proof the place and—”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I recommend listening to the song _Oh Pretty Woman_ when reading this. It's adorkable  <3

 

The next day, Bart showed up to the Tower. He had to use the zeta-beam tubes, which always gave him the weirdest form of nausea and the strange feeling of a third leg. Wally was stuck at his job and patrolling Keystone City for the day, so even if Bart wanted an alternative mode of transportation, he wasn’t likely to get it. He missed the rush of energy coiling in his legs, and the burst of speed in his feet as he treaded through the cities. Sure, the zeta-beam tube left him with a temporary form of discombobulating, but it was different being dizzy from transporting from one end of the country to the other. _Transporting_ couldn’t make you want to puke after running too fast for your body because your stomach couldn’t catch up.

 

Artemis and Black Canary were to help him with physical therapy. The entire morning he was giddy to return, to see his teammates. He’d found a small chain in one of his drawers to loop around the rings Wally and Grandpa Barry had given him, and tied it neatly around his neck.

 

After meeting up with his rehab coaches, they set him on a mat in the gym, crutches aside and went through the delicate process of undoing the cast on Bart’s leg. It made a _thunk_ noise as it hit the ground, leaving the brunet’s limb feeling bare without a shell.

 

“That thing is _heavy._ ” Artemis arched an eyebrow, staring at the dark metal in disbelief.

 

Bart shrugged. “I planned on welding it into a cool shield once I didn’t have to wear it again. You know—like the Knights of the Round Table.” He split into a grin as Artemis sighed, rolling her eyes playfully in a way that was worthy of Wally. On the other end of the room, the holo-platform had finally been installed for sparring matches and keeping score.

 

There was a shout when Gar hit the ground, causing the bystanders to inch away just slightly, and Wonder Girl held her head high with a grin. “Who’s next!?”

 

“Today we’ll just start with some stretching. If you can do more than that, we’ll go from there. Alright?” Black Canary smiled to him kindly and settled to the left of him as Artemis crouched at the right.

 

“Sounds easy enough.” And boring. He wiggled his toes in his bad leg, despite them being covered by a pair of sneakers. Instantly he could feel the strain on it again—the sudden, awkward tug that pulled at him. Hiding his grimace, Bart did his best not to twitch when Artemis grabbed hold of his leg.

 

“Can you bend it?” She asked.

 

“Yeah.” Painfully so. He’d been advised to wear comfortable pants in order to do just that. Moving his leg felt like flexing joints that were made completely of sand. The stitches, too—pitch black and completely different from his skin tone. He couldn’t help trembling as he bent his leg, holding his breath.

 

“It’s best to do these exercises at home when you can. Faster you do that, the faster you should be back on your feet.” Artemis looked to him carefully. “Hold that for ten seconds and then we’ll unbend it for ten. You feel alright?”

 

“It’s…actually not that bad.” He was getting used to it. Bart raised his head just slightly to eye his leg. Then, he straightened it himself until the end of his foot met the edge of the mat. The injured leg trembled just slightly from disuse, but overall wasn’t as uncomfortable as Bart anticipated. He sat up on the mat and curled the leg into himself again. It was a struggle, but nothing that hurt him too badly.

 

“That must be your speed kicking in for your leg.” Black Canary inspected him carefully. “Your healing works at a different pace than Wally’s, after all.”

 

“Yeah. I…I-I guess.” Bart bent his leg once more, then cringed. His knee felt… _tighter_ from not being used. As though he was stretching something that wasn’t there. He cupped the injury with his hand and shivered. “ _Ow._ ”

 

“Don’t push yourself too hard. Let’s at least go through the basics—”

 

“Can I try standing up?” Bart looked to both women, hand still tight. They blinked in return, clearly not expecting that question. So before they could tell him no or tell him to go slower, the brunet began pushing himself off the floor—

 

“Wait. _Wait_.” Artemis grabbed him by one hand while Black Canary grabbed the other.

 

It took an effort. Bart sucked in a breath, resting most of his weight on his good leg as he finally ascended to his full height. He shuddered, placing his bad foot on the ground and felt his chest hammer. His ankle was stiff to the touch. One leg felt secure, the other like Styrofoam. Quickly, Bart let out the air in his lungs and gripped both women’s shoulders for support.

 

He was standing.

 

Sweat permeated against Bart’s skin as he stared at the ground and concentrated on his feet. He swayed from side-to-side, still adjusting to the idea of bearing weight on himself. When he looked back up, all eyes were on him. Suddenly the entire room was quiet—no sounds of combat to be heard, no Cassie kicking someone’s butt.

 

Wonder Girl pressed a hand to her mouth, eyes wide in shock. Jaime and Gar both looked to him in astonishment, one grinning and the other smacking an arm like they were saying, _‘Look what’s happening_!’ Finally, Bart looked to Tim, who’d been in the crowd along with the other kids and conversing with Roy. His heart skipped a beat, watching a dark eyebrow raise in the air, absolutely speechless, and from the other side of the room, he could _feel_ Tim’s smile.

 

“How does that feel?” Black Canary asked quietly. From the corner of his eye, he saw her smile, clearly proud and happy.

 

“Like I could use that third leg from the zeta-beam tube.” Bart fumbled, gripping both women tight by the arms and felt his knees buckle together. “Okay—I think I’m ready to fall down now.”

 

A moment later and his leg finally caved in. Bart cocked his head to his own two feet and staggered, wobbling until both Artemis and Black Canary eased him to the floor again. He grinded his teeth, grimacing as the sudden rush of blood throbbed at his leg and sighed sharply as they straightened out his leg.

 

Laying his head down against the mat, he sighed loudly and stared at the ceiling above him.

 

“You’ve already got the endurance to stand on both your feet, B.” Artemis looked at him approvingly from above. She reached to a nearby duffel bag and handed him a bottle of water. “We’re going to have to play it by ear with these injuries.”

 

“Do you have any idea yourself when you’d be back on your feet? Did Flash say anything?” Black Canary inspected him once more as though the answer was hidden in the crinkles of her shirt. He’d always liked her—she was pretty and patient. Unfortunately, he couldn’t supply an answer.

 

After all, he’d spent plenty of days sulking and refusing to stare at his leg than actually figuring out how long it would take before it healed. That…would probably be the best next step. Running a hand through brown hair, Bart placed his fingers at the wound and bit the inside of his mouth. Two weeks. Wally had a better eye on the physics side of their speed—so intelligent that even Grandpa looked up to him some days. That meant being on his leg as much as possible the next few days—

 

“Bart?”

 

Bwuh. Blink, blink. Emerald green eyes tore away from their thoughts and looked wildly between the two blonde women. “What? I miss a crisis or something? I hear those are deadly.”

 

He was getting used to that suspicious look that everyone kept giving him recently. Artemis arched an eyebrow. “You were staring at your leg and looked like you were thinking hard about something. Need to talk about it?”

 

Not yet. Bart shook his head furiously. “No. I mean—” Scratching his head again, the brunet shook his head. “I just want to get back on my feet as soon as possible.”

 

“Of course you do.” Artemis smiled gently. It wasn’t until then that Bart realized that Black Canary had gone to the other side of the room to meet the teenagers—no doubt advising them to return to their sparring matches. He caught sight of Roy, who smirked, and waved back weakly. “You know, Wally’s trying to figure out new ways to help you.”

 

Just what he needed: all the adults in the team discussing his stats. On the matter of Wally, Bart leaned back and blew a bang out of his eye. “Right. Forgot you two are still friends. I mean— _good_ friends after the break up. And stuff.” Ouch—insert good foot in mouth. Unlike Black Canary, Artemis was willing to give him an unpleasant frown when she found something wrong in his speech. He drew a sigh and apologized. “Sorry.  I just—I know they’re worried. I’m just trying to make sure I’m getting on my feet so they _stop_ worrying.”

 

Another twitch in her demeanor. One that meant she wasn’t as annoyed as she was only seconds before. “He’s your _cousin_ , Bart. Of course he’s going to be worried about you.” Bart opened his mouth to speak, but she held a hand up to stop him. “It goes back to this Flash thing, too. Before he got promoted to the position, he was one of your mentors.”

 

“So what am I to him now?” Once he asked that, the woman flashed another odd look. One of those, _you’ll-figure-it-out-on-your-own_ puzzles that usually left Bart more confused than satisfied. He loved her like he did a sister, given Wally and she had been dating so long. She was still part of the family and welcomed warmly into the household, even if Wally and she were no longer together.

 

Besides. Kaldur and she would be getting married next spring.

 

A mischievous smile curled against her lips and she crossed her arms. “I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”

 

Apparently. He gave her one last look before they returned to his physical therapy. The session was meant to last for an hour, consisting of stretching exercises and ability to lift his leg. They put it in odd angles, testing what was comfortable and what wasn’t. When he was finally done, Bart was able to rotate his ankle without much discomfort.

 

Team members still loitered around—this time Roy egging on the new Batgirl for a physical match. She was a petite but physically fit Asian girl who never spoke, but what she lacked in speech was made up in her battle prowess. (So, most people were betting Roy was going to lose within the next ten minutes.)

 

Artemis was helping position the brace back on Bart’s leg when Robin walked over.

 

“You need any help putting that on?”

 

Bart cocked his head, eyes meeting that of the elder teen’s immediately. His chest thrummed happily and immediately, a smile graced his lips. “Sure.”

 

For some reason, Artemis looked between the both of them. The teen stood straighter in his position on the ground, never once breaking sight with his best friend. It only made it better when Robin smiled _back._ Out of nowhere Artemis stood up, an odd look on her face. She placed a hand on Robin’s shoulder and smirked pleasantly.

 

“How about Bart shows you how it works? That way you two can be cute.”

 

Hm. Tim made a face—a subtle change, despite the pink that tingled in his cheeks. As Artemis walked away, pale fingers wrapped around the brace where she hadn’t finished. Before the thought crossed his mind, Bart placed his hands on top of Tim’s.

 

“It’s really easy,” he started. The grin upon the brunet’s face widened. “Just…tighten the knobs here. It doesn’t get really bendy—but I guess that’s the point because the doctors are still worried that the stitches could get loose, but they’re healing so fast so I don’t really notice—I think it’s just my leg needing to get all _leggy_ again so I can walk on it. The metal stinks, too—smells like me. You know—when I haven’t showered for five days. Thanks for the blu-rays, by the way—they’rereallycool.”

 

Even Bart knew he was babbling too much. When he got excited, he rolled on a tangent. And when he _knew_ he was rolling on a tangent, it only made him _more_ excited and to hurry to get at the end. What made his heart flutter, however, was when Tim quirked his quiet smile that was reserved only for _him_ —and looked Bart in the eye.

 

The metal bolts squeaked awkwardly as Tim turned them. Bart never once let go of his hands.

 

“Glad you like the disks.”

 

“I really do.” Eyes twinkling, Bart felt his cheeks warm joyfully and leaned into his friend’s warmth. Their fingers tangled together—firm and comfortable until it just felt _natural_. “I uh. I have something for you. In my duffel bag. Canyougetit?”

 

It was too far of a stretch for him. Thankfully, Tim was cool enough to drag it over. He watched the Boy Wonder slowly unzip the base of his bag, then push it over to Bart himself. The brunet rummaged through its contents, feeling through his comic books, extra food, action figures, the Nerf gun Roy had gotten him and— _there._

 

One daisy and a Hershey’s bar.

 

“So—” Bart started, and he whipped both gifts out victoriously. Tim looked to him with surprise as the speedster held them out. “This is, uh—well. Wally told me that if I _liked_ someone, then…I should get them a gift. Flowers and chocolate. Fortunately both of them were around the house because I only got about three hobbles out the door before Jay carried me back inside into my room and put the baby proof gate on the door—which, by the way, is _hard to open_ when you’ve got crutches. Like, I tried to kick it over and see if I could substitute one of them like Tommy’s screwdriver off of Rugrats, but _wow_ , it just doesn’t _work_ , and those gates are _tough._ Forget about trying to take Amazo down with weapons, let’s just baby proof the place and—”

 

He cut himself off when he noticed Tim’s smirk, and when the other teen reached over gratefully for the flower.

 

“Anyway—” Bart bit his lip, the smile undeterred from his face. “Um. Do you…wanna go out on a date with me? Like. A _date_ -date? One without graveyards, just…you and me? Together? We could go to the movies, get some food. You know— _date stuff._ ”

 

 _Oh_ , was the look on Tim’s face. Because even the ward of the World’s Greatest Detective apparently didn’t see that coming when Bart opened his mouth and asked so bluntly. Beneath the shades, he could almost see Robin blink in surprise.

 

His heart sunk, fell down a flight of stairs, and was shot in its little mini-heart by Deathstroke. “I-Ifyoudon’twanttothat’sfine—”

 

“I’d love to.”

 

Blink. Blink, blink. Bart’s eyes narrowed incredulously, brow raised beneath his hair. “Um, you sure?”

 

“Saturday.” Robin rubbed the stem of the daisy between his fingers. “Six o’clock at Central City. Does that sound good?”

 

“Oh. Uh—y-yeah. Wait. Wait, wait, wait. Shouldn’t I be asking _you_ out?”

 

“Same difference.” And Tim shrugged and smiled.

 

“Crash.” Bart demeanor changed goofily. “Cool.”

 

Just then, the buzz of the intercom system resonated throughout the room and throughout the Tower. The building was still incomplete—walls were not cemented on every floor, nor were any of the rooms close to being done. Fortunately while Bart was gone, the audio of their intercom had been fixed.

 

Nightwing’s voice echoed off the walls. _“Team. Suit up for the mission and meet at the Main-Ops center in ten minutes.”_

 

Huh. At that moment, Bart’s expression wilted. He, like the rest of the team, had cocked their head in the direction of the voice as soon as they heard it. But unlike his teammates, Bart couldn’t join in for the mission. Tim flashed him a look—conflicting and hesitant.

 

“Sorr—”

 

“Nono—I’m cool. Totally crash. I’ll be back on the team beating up meat in no time—no big deal.” He forced a smile across his face and ignored the doubtful look Robin exchanged with him. Instead, he pushed off the ground, offering one of his hands to his temporarily-not-teammate. “Help me up?”

 

Again, Tim stared at him doubtfully. Bart wasn’t stupid—he knew that just like everyone else, Tim stared at him differently because of the accident. What made it so bothersome was the fact it was Tim. When Robin scrutinized in the past few days, it was never just about the change (or lack thereof) in his personality. Tim knew better than anyone the separation between Impulse, the Grandson of the Flash and Bart Allen, the kid from the future.

 

He felt his heart tremble, looking back at Tim. It was going to take more than just a date for Tim to stop guilt-tripping himself. Unfortunately, until Bart figured out that solution he couldn’t stop beating _himself_ up either. Leaning into the Boy Wonder’s weight, both hands strapped firmly to the elder teen’s shoulders as Jaime, Cassie, Roy, and the others walked up.

 

Jaime offered him both crutches, eyebrow arched in the air. “How’s your healing going?”

 

“Faster than they thought it would.” Even though he didn’t want to, Bart pulled away from Robin. He tucked both crutches beneath his arms and steadied himself without much effort.

 

Cassie slung an arm around him and kissed him sweetly on the cheek. “Stay for a while. Mal says that he’s going to get the TV up and running, and we were going to have our first movie night at the Tower.”

 

Sitting around, watching his teammates do something extra cool on a mission while Bart himself was moded. Shaking his head, Bart struggled for another smile for his blonde friend. “Nah. Wally promised after therapy he was gonna take me home. Um—i-it’ll just be easier that way.”

 

 _That way_ , he wouldn’t be sulking while Nightwing gave out orders. The gang gave him one extra look—concerned, reluctant, thoughtful—anything than the usual look of acknowledgement before they did when they went on previous missions. With one final goodbye, everyone left. All but Tim.

 

The Boy Wonder placed a hand firmly on Bart’s shoulder and squeezed tightly, the daisy and chocolate bar safe in his other hand. He looked to Bart, the worry still gleaming beneath his shades. “Saturday?”

 

Bart smiled weakly, muddling on his own feet. “Saturday.”

 

And soon even Robin left, leaving a cold spot where he touched the brunet’s shoulder. The gym emptied out until it was Bart himself staring out the window to the outskirts of Happy Harbor. Alone, without his speed, without his team. Without a drive.

 

Ten minutes passed before Wally finally showed up. He smiled at his cousin once they met eyes, pulled the duffel bag over his shoulder and reached for young teen. “Physical therapy go well?”

 

“Slow.” Bart shrugged and tucked the crutches over himself. Wally scooped him up as he’d done plenty of times. The more he did it, the less painful grunts there were as Wally hauled him around. The brunet breathed in the scent of his cousin’s aftershave—probably something worn for Dick—and the distinct scent of hapless debris as the redhead accelerated.

 

“It’s a bitch,” Wally announced. “But just suck it up. Like I said—”

 

“I’ll be back on my feet in no time,” Bart finished. “I know. Can we just—just run?”

 

“Uh—” The older speedster frowned. The younger buried his head in the crook of Wally’s neck, hoping that justified a silent treatment. “Yeah. Sure, B.”

 

He could feel the buildup of energy as it coiled in Wally’s stomach. The hum of Wally’s body pressed against his own, vibrating with the anticipation of a good sprint. Wally put one foot forth, then the other, and ran. Gust picked up, rushing through their hair and howling against their skin. _Lightning_ picked up at Wally’s feet, exploding and cackling as the redhead gained momentum and headed toward Central City.

 

Bart closed his eyes and breathed in the scent of adrenaline.

 

Concentrating just hard enough, he pretended _he_ was the one running.

 

**xxx**

_Hair combed back, nice shirt—one of Wally’s sweaters stolen from his house—_ Yeah. Okay—yeah.

 

Bart stared nervously in the mirror, ruffling and ruffling locks of brown hair. Man—he’d never noticed how fluffy his hair had gotten over the years. And long. So—unmanageable, almost. Still, he held a grin despite all the troubles with his hair and leaned over for the hairdryer.

 

Okay—so, his hairdo usually went with wherever the wind took him—to give that windswept, _just-been-running-at-600mph_ , _no-big-deal_ look. Unfortunately, it was estimated another week before he could actually run and actually be of use to the team and his family again.

 

Which was fine—because it was Saturday, and Saturday meant date night.

 

He blasted the hairdryer as high as it would go and aimed it at his hair. Bursts of hot air exploded from the nozzle, nearly knocking Bart into the towel rack. He held it out at arm’s length for approximately twenty seconds. Hey—if he couldn’t get the voluntary _woosh_ , the hairdryer was a pathetic-but-useful substitute. Once his hair had the right Bart Allen Brand, he set the hairdryer aside and inspected his reflection once more.

 

It took waiting a whole three _days_ before he could see Tim again. He put the phone Jay had given him to good use—calling and texting—but waiting for the message to get through was _much_ slower than showing up at Gotham City whenever he wanted to hang out. (Jaime had an appreciation for it, apparently—it meant Bart would not be barging into his room every time Blue was studying or—in the rare likelihood, had a girl over.)

 

They decided on the third Hunger Games movie. Tim suggested on going to the local theater in Central City once they figured out where they were going to eat—which was a tossup between a sushi bar and an Italian restaurant. At the end of the night if both were still awake (which they would be— _hello_ , two teenage boys with the habit of completing missions at five in the morning?), they could go to the arcade Bart knew so well, which didn’t close until at least four.

 

When Bart blushed and nervously explained to Grandma Iris and Joan about his date plans, Grandma gasped with delight and both women willingly gave him money for the night. Grandpa scratched his head—for the Fastest Man Alive, he wasn’t always updated on the most recent information. However—seeing the bashful look on his grandson’s face, there was no way to crush Bart’s spirit and explain to him, _no_ , you can’t go on this date.

 

A knock on the bathroom door snapped him out of his excitement. “Bart, Barry and Iris are here with the kids for you.”

 

“Oh—cool!” Wait. Why? Just as his excitement teemed, it deflated. He hobbled toward the door and met eyes with Jay in surprise, eyes wide and brow raised. “I thought Joan and you were going out to see some opera or something, right? Why are the kids over?”

 

“BART!” was the happy cry from two one-and-a-half-year-old kids. At the floor, Donny and Dawn stumbled over their tiny feet to Bart, with Grandma and Grandpa hot on their trail. Dressed very nicely, in a tux and a beautiful red dress.

 

Grandma Iris smiled broadly at him and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Thank you _so much_ for taking the kids. Your grandfather and I have been waiting to see this museum opening for _ages._ ”

 

Oh. Crap. Crap. Crap. “Um,” Bart said weakly as Dawn and Donny reached his legs, “was that today?”

 

The way Grandma and Grandpa looked to him let him know that yes, he _totally_ goofed. Grandma Iris’s expression changed just slightly, and she arched an eyebrow. “Of course it is, sweetheart. You promised just a few days ago you’d watch them, remember?”

 

Just a few days ago he’d been imagining all the cool things he could be doing with Tim. Holding hands. Cuddling. _Holding hands._ He squirmed uncomfortably and twitched, pulling at the collar of his shirt. “I uh—today’smydatewithRobin.”

 

That caught their attention. All four adults looked to each other, a pained expression crossing their demeanors. Just like his grandson, Barry began tugging at his bowtie. Sure, Bart tended to get caught up in his own thoughts at untimely moments. He _distinctly_ recalled agreeing to babysit the kids—after all, it wasn’t like he hadn’t done it before. Legless or not, they usually had _fun._

 

“It’sfine!” Bart’s expression stretched, trying hard not to show his frustration. Part of him deafened the bubbling disappointment in his stomach and the other end of him silenced the irritation. He appreciated the pampering that had come after returning home—after all, what else were Flashes known for, if not a happy household? But the other part of him just wanted the pampering to be _over_ with so he could move on with his life. Gulping hard, he rubbed his neck and checked the clock—Tim would be here in ten minutes. “I’lljust—could I have the date _here_ then?”

 

If _that_ wasn’t a look of reluctance, then Bart didn’t know what one was. Leaning into the doorframe, he picked up Donny—and grimaced, when something loud burbled from his baby-dad’s diaper. Holding the baby out at arm’s length, his grandparents smiled guiltily.

 

Well—Barry frowned and looked to Jay. “I dunno. You think they’ll be okay on their own?”

 

“I don’t see why not. Maybe a helping hand would be good—considering Bart can’t exactly move on his own efficiently.” Iris looked pointedly to her grandson and placed an arm around his shoulders. “We’d let Wally do it. What do you guys think?”

 

That left the decision up to Jay and Joan. Dangling baby Donny from his hands, the brunet looked to his guardians pleadingly, eyebrows contorted and lips curled into a _hopefully convincing_ pout. Joan laughed softly and Jay crossed his arms approvingly.

 

“Why not. Once we’re done, Barry and I will bring pizza for the two of you later tonight. Sound good?”

 

“Really?” Bart’s eyes widened, grinning with relief.

 

Once again, his mentors exchanged looks. They looked back to him, mimicking the same approving body gestures and nodded.

“ _Crash_! So—um.” He lifted his good leg sheepishly, still holding Donny away from him despite the poor baby’s insistence to be held. “Could someone get me pants without Aunt Dawn’s drool on it? And uh. Change Dad?”

 

**xxx**

The first thing Bart did when he opened the door was apologize. Then compliment him. “Sorry—wowyoulooknice.”

 

Naturally, a smile curled at the end of Tim’s face as he inspected his date for the evening. Scatterbrained as ever, genuine, and every way his face contorted expressed how he felt. So as a second instinct, Tim arched an eyebrow, took note of the baby in the speedster’s hand—and the one clinging onto Bart’s good leg.

 

Taking in Bart as a whole, the brunet’s eyebrows were pinched together until there were little ridges between them. His eyes glimmered miserably, frown tight across his face. He almost looked ready to _cry_ —something that shouldn’t have sounded as cute as it did, given how fussy Bart looked.

 

“What’s wrong?” Tim matched Bart’s frown and stood taller.

 

“I—uh.” Bart managed to maneuver himself around on one crutch and sucked in a breath. “Istherwanywaywecouldhaveourdate _here_?” He went through the explanation of why he was so upset as Dawn and Donny stared at Tim suspiciously. If it were any consolation, Tim had very little experience with little kids other than saving them around Bludhaven and Gotham City. He had a feeling that Dawn and Donny weren’t willing to share their babysitter with him.

 

Still, Bart looked so crestfallen that he forgot how to say no.

 

“I-If you don’t want to hang out today, we can reschedule.” The distress in Bart’s voice as he rocked back and forth from crutch to bad leg sent a pang in Tim’s leg. “Imean. I don’tmindwaitingforever or so.”

 

“You said Jay and your grandfather would bring pizza later tonight, right?” The thing was, even if Tim _remembered_ to say no, he never would have. Instantly the younger teen perked, head raised in disbelief while Donny giggled. “Once someone comes back you and I can go to the arcade—if it’s still open, and they don’t mind you’re late.”

 

Still, Bart stared at him doubtfully, eyebrows contorted together and body jolting in odd direction. “You’re sure. You’re willing to babysit with me. One’s like a mini-poop canon and the other sprits like a waterfall.”

 

The Boy Wonder shrugged nonchalantly and hesitantly reached out for Dawn—a cute little girl. Her blond hair was tied into happy pigtails, fitted with Cinderella’s tiara, going along with her white and blue polka-dotted dress. She stared at Tim as though contemplating what was happening—and did absolutely nothing. “Um.” 

 

“They, uh—they can be picky about adults.” Bart staggered backward to let the elder teen in the house, face twisting with panic as he did so. “After a few rounds of hide-and-go-seek, some ‘nanners, and the Spongebob movie, they should be out. Then you and I can…” He trailed off, red glowing in his cheeks.

 

Bart was serious about making this a date. Which eased Tim even more into the circumstances. He pushed the hair out of Bart’s eyes, fingers tangling through brown locks until they curled behind Bart’s ear. Emerald green eyes looked to him, twinkling and handsome—just like the night at the hospital. “Can what?” he mused softly.

 

HIs date for the evening gulped, leaning against his fingers and mouth opened just slightly. Quietly, Bart followed Tim’s expression with a grin of his own. “You don’t have your shades on.”

 

“Glad you noticed.”

 

“You’re— _really_ , really attractive.”

 

Biting the inside of his mouth, Tim felt the heat in his cheeks as he felt green eyes do a once-over of him. This time he picked Dawn up despite the earlier lack of reaction. To his surprise she didn’t fuss, just simply stare at him funny with a line of drool running down her lip. He reached over with his other hand and shyly placed it on the small of Bart’s back. “Can I help you to the couch?”

 

“You could help me in a lot of places.” Bart shared a smile and leaned into his teammate’s weight.

 

The Allens and the Garricks found them minutes later on the couch before both couples planned on leaving for their outing. All of Tim’s past experiences with parental units immediately forced him to put at least a foot of space between Bart and him—much to his speedster’s dismay. However, Dick had informed him that the biggest thing about the Flash family was that they welcomed everyone that meant something.

 

Even then it still surprised him when Iris Allen reached over to kiss him on the cheek and Joan Garrick referred to him as ‘sweetheart’ and ‘dear.’ Barry Allen—the Flash that had been around when Tim first became Robin—patted him kindly on the shoulder and informed both of them that they would be back to pick up the twins at 10PM, sharp.

 

He was still getting over the warm look every one of the adults gave him when they finally left. True, Tim had seen first-hand how much the Flash(es) cherished their future speedster, but being on their turf—being in the home of Bart Allen was like being engulfed by a plate of warm, gooey cookies and a tall glass of milk.

 

Back when Dick and Wally first got together, Tim recalled the first instance Dick had been invited to a family dinner with the Wests. He knew his brother’s nervousness. Artemis had been the girl Wally was with for a whole five years, and who they suspected he would marry. When they suddenly broke up and Wally announced his new lover was a _man_ , issues were to be had. However, when Dick came home from the family dinner (albeit the next morning), he’d walked through the door with relief on his face and at bliss for the rest of the month.

 

It almost seemed unreal, how welcoming the family could be. Bart was met with kisses to the cheeks and affectionate ruffles to his hair (to which he smiled and chided they were going to be late) before they all left.

 

Bart and he were nestled tightly on the couch with Donny and Dawn sitting happily on their laps. Once Dawn found the remote, she jeered and shoved it in her mouth. Donny, on the other hand, took pleasure in yanking out tissues from the box and stuffing them between his toes.

 

“Hey! _Dad_ , I use those for my nose!” Bart split into a grin and yanked the box away from the baby boy. He set it aside and picked out wads from between Donny’s toes. “You _dorky baby._ ”

 

The baby frowned, realizing his plaything had been taken away and looked tearfully at the box. “No!”—was what he shouted before proceeding to climb his future son’s shoulder—foot in nose and everything. “Mine!”

 

“Hey— _hey._ ” Bart wobbled and held the baby out at arm’s length and smirked “How about I get you some chocolate pudding? That sound crash, pops?”

 

Comically as Tim observed, both twins stopped their current doings. Dawn yanked the remote out of her mouth and turned her head to her future nephew. Donny gasped, eyes wide and matching his sister’s and threw his tiny fists in the air. “Put-tin! Put-tin!”

 

“ _Right._ Pudding.” Bart grinned victoriously, pushed Donny to the side, and pushed himself to his feet.

 

“Do you babysit often?” The Boy Wonder mused. He watched the speedster reach for his crutches—then stood up, when both promptly fell to the ground. “Here, let me—”

 

“No—no. I can walk a little bit.” Despite having the brace firmly latched onto his leg, Bart split into a grin. He took a step forward, his foot _thonk_ ing as it hit the ground. His bad leg dragged behind him and he shook in balance. “Don’t tell Artemis though—she’d kill me.”

 

Tim blinked. He stared at the metal cast skeptically—then to Bart himself, who looked everything but bothered. Once he caught sight of the Boy Wonder’s doubtful eyes, however, his demeanor twisted.

 

“Yeah—I babysit pretty often. Y’know—when I’m not on missions and stuff.” Bart hobbled in front of Tim to maintain his attention. “I agreed like, _infinity_ ago to babysit them and I—I guess I got so busy thinking about _you_ that I forgot.” A crooked smile curled across his lips, sweet and genuine. Oh. “Thanks for sticking around.”

 

“Thanks for asking.” Tim nodded carefully—and before Bart could protest, reached for both of Bart’s crutches. For a moment, the speedster’s fingers pressed on top of his own, humming and buzzing with a quiet excitement.

 

Bart settled tightly and tightened his hands on the grips. “Thanks.”

 

“You’re welcome.”

 

After that, babysitting spiraled into hell.

 

The moment Bart staggered out of the room, Donny and Dawn burst into tears. Babies were able to sense when someone they trusted left—and given they were the kids of the second Flash, it probably felt like an eternity before Bart would come back. Tim jumped in surprise, picking Dawn and Donny up as best as he could—

 

“Uh— _Bart_?”

 

“Hold on! They put the pudding on the top shelf again—I keep _telling_ Joan we need to invest in a step stool, it would just make things a _lot_ easier.”

 

The howls of crying babies deafened both Tim’s ears. He nearly fell over as the babies went into a tantrum of _‘NO! NO!’_ and wriggled violently to get out of his arms. “ _Bart..._ ” Oh—shit.

 

Saving babies by zip-lining down a gargoyle in Gotham City— _doable._ Mollifying two babies that would become speedsters in a few short years? _Not._

 

“Hold on, hold on—” Bart re-emerged from the kitchen, one pudding cup in hand and a spoon in his mouth. He grinned, completely unfazed by the crying babies, allowed one crutch to rest in the wall, and reached for the nearest baby—his aunt. “I’m _here_! I got the pudding, remember?”

 

Dawn settled happily in her nephew’s arms and buried her face in his shoulder possessively. Donny, on the other hand, squirmed and whimpered, reaching out for his future-son. The most Tim could do was lean in just slightly to be in Bart’s bubble of personal space—

 

“Dad, I can’t hold you!” The brunet frowned, inching away just slightly as Donny cried again.

 

Tim grimaced, tilting to a side. To think of all things to knock him off balance—a _baby._ “I don’t think—he likes me very—”A loud, gurgling sound emerged from Donny’s diaper and silenced everyone in the room. Crap.

 

Literally.

 

Donny wrestled in Tim’s grasp, moving and squirming enough that his… _excretion_ had a sound as he moved. He sighed, as though finally reaching a destination and suddenly wilted. Brown oozed from a loose fold in Donny’s diaper—

 

—and landed as a thick blob on Tim’s shoe.

 

Silence.

 

“OhmygodIamso—”

 

“It’s fine, I can—” Tim lifted his shoe, and a solid bit of poop splattered onto the ground.

 

“Youcanwearmyshoes!” Bart’s eyes widened and he started toward the door—before tripping over his own two feet and landing directly on top of his date. “Oof! _Aaghh—_ ”

 

“Whoa—” Tim fell over from the weight onto his back, the small-and-crippled speedster landing on top of him. All he heard was the _splat_ of the… _baby discharge_ as it smeared onto the back of his jeans. The brunet’s forehead hit his own with a painful _CLACK_ and the back of Tim’s head met the wooden floor. At the very least, both were smart enough to cover the babies from impact—who were also now giggling.

 

Tim felt the warm gush of Donny’s diaper against his stomach. He choked on a sound of disgust as the baby boy looked to him and clapped his hands happily—and looked to the other teen. Bart trembled, eyes wide, brow twitching in panic and mouth stretched, clearly upset. Shit.

 

“This isn’t going as I—”

 

“We’ll change the diaper, clean them both up and see if you have any pants that’ll fit me.” At any other time, Tim would have been glad with Bart’s face so close to his own. Right now he felt his own face burn and simmer in embarrassment, ready to bury all of him in a hole for the next century and a half. “We’ll feed them, tire them out—” Tim wheezed, feeling both babies move against him. “Sound—good?”

 

The last thing he wanted was to make Bart panic. The boy looked more miserable than before. “Right. I—y-yeah.”

 

Baby Dawn spit up on Tim’s shirt. 

 

**xxx**

Deathstroke might as well have shot him in the other knee.

 

It would have saved Bart from his current humiliation of trying to juggle having a date with Tim and keeping the twins situated. Something new he learned today: Dad and Aunt Dawn were _not_ the sharing type. He saw them nearly every day, and yet somehow they still craved to be with him by every means.

 

Every time Bart opted to leave the room—whether to get something else from the refrigerator or to even use the restroom, Donny cried. When Bart would settle comfortably on the couch and promptly pick Dad up—Aunt Dawn cried. Tim was now walking around in a pair of Bart’s loosest sweatpants—which didn’t last long. Donny was a puncher—which meant the moment Tim tried to feed the baby pudding, it landed on the spare pants.

 

And of course, Aunt Dawn drooled when she was comfortable. Which meant Tim had a pool of saliva on his thigh. Bart, of course, was not saved from the bodily fluids of his dad and Aunt. Though—it was one thing to have _your family’s_ saliva on you and to have it on your date. That much, Bart didn’t have to ask Wally about.

 

Watching two babies with super speed normally was not that hard. Being (somewhat) smarter and (definitely) faster than the kids, Bart had the advantage of being two steps ahead of them. You know—if he actually had _both legs._ Hunting down two babies on crutches was _not_ cutting it, especially if they only saw it as a game. In the end, Bart would fall over

 

Tim managed to find a shiny bottle and distract Aunt Dawn. Dad cried, demanded food for his stomach, and—moments later, the food would go from his stomach straight into his diaper as triple the mass. When both babies realized Bart was not gone for good, they would opt for climbing up the stairs.

 

Which was a bad thing. Donny got his head stuck in the stair banister (again), and burst into tears. Vibrating him out of the situation would have been easy—if the banister wasn’t at least two feet above his head. Despite Tim’s protests, Bart instinctively hopped up the steps and fazed his baby father into his hands.

 

After that, Dawn decided to stick her hand in Jay and Joan’s VCR. When Tim pulled her away, she resorted to biting his flesh.

 

It got worse.

 

“I take it this is normal,” Tim mused in a calm moment, when they sat the babies down and were fed Spaghetti-o’s. He gestured to Bart from head-to-toe. They both looked ridiculous—that was an understatement. The brunet already had a hard time looking Tim in the eye after their struggle with the twins.

 

Shrugging jerkily, Bart scooped up a spoonful of food and put it in his dad’s mouth. “Honestly? I’m usually a step ahead of them with my speed.” Offhandedly, he added with a quirk of the lip, “We’re also still doing better than Wally did.”

 

A smile stretched across Tim’s face. “You’re kidding.”

 

“Why do you think _I’m_ always designated babysitter?” Splitting into a grin, Bart held his head up with pride. Bragging was good on dates, right? Okay, good. “I’m uh—I’m usually better than this.” He stared at his brace contemplatively and cursed the situation. No matter what he did, he just kept _messing up._ Fingers curled against the knobs of his brace. “Maybe I can—”

 

“No.”

 

The force of Tim’s tone was enough to make Bart jump. He cocked his head in surprise to the Boy Wonder, whose friendly demeanor turned stern. Frowning, Bart returned the other teen’s perturbed demeanor. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

 

Somehow, a plaintive sigh or a shake of a head would have been better than the troubled look Tim gave him. For once the brunet could see blue eyes flicker frigidly—and then, Tim shook his head, jaw tightening. “You were going to take your leg brace off and I’m not letting you. You said yourself you have at least another week before you’re even allowed on your feet again.”

 

“But—”

 

“ _Bart,”_ Tim snapped. “No.”

 

Green eyes blinked wildly at his leader, who was doing everything but glaring at him. Bart’s throat dried and he sunk in his seat. The date had basically ended before it begun and—despite all of Tim’s efforts to be sympathetic—Bart _still_ upset him. Swallowing hard, Bart pulled his hand away and ignored the sudden cold flash he felt in his fingers. “Right. I’ll—I’ll just call someone then.”

 

Fifteen minutes of silence followed the evening while they waited for Bart’s best friend, Carol Bucklen, to show up at their door. Out of Bart’s group of school friends, she was the only one that knew his secret ID (a long story that he was too frustrated to get into.)

 

She was a pretty girl—especially with her long hair and thick, wayfarer glasses. Wally spent an incredible amount of time teasing Bart back when he was in middle school how cute of a couple they would be. Two years later he, Carol, and a boy named Preston all still hung out. Like Tim, Carol knew how to make Bart feel stupid—and they were both _cool_ that way.

 

Right now, he could barely smile when he answered the door. She looked him up and down, head-to-toe and pushed her glasses against the bridge of her nose. “Hard night?”

 

“The hardest.” Bart hobbled back into the living room where Tim sat between Dawn and Donny, who calmed down enough to watch _Spongebob Squarepants the Movie_.

 

“You look like you were mauled by a typhoon of babies.”

 

“Well—they become the _Tornado Twins_ for a reason.” Arching an eyebrow, Bart teetered back to his position on the couch—as far away from Tim as possible. He feigned interest in the TV and tried hard not to look at his date from the corner of his eye.

 

Carol was a lot like Artemis. Intuitive. She looked between them before collecting both babies (who never fussed, thankfully, when Carol came over) and looked to them expectantly. “I guess I’ll give these two a bath and we’ll go from there. How’s your knee?”

 

“Been better.” Shrugging once again, Bart sighed loudly. He felt the couch shift as Tim stood up and looked to the taller teen in surprise.

 

Tim had his Robin face on. The Boy Wonder rubbed the back of his neck, clearly bothered. “I should probably get going then.”

 

“Wait—I—I’ll.” Bart pushed himself off the couch, inwardly groaning as he wobbled on his feet. He balanced himself on both crutches and dragged himself to Tim’s side. Not that he knew what to expect—Tim barely batted an eyelash. “I’ll walk you out.”

 

His chest tightened, watching Tim as Tim watched _him._ The taller teen bit the inside of his mouth before reluctantly lowering his head and nodding. “Okay.”

 

A minute and a half was enough time to think of something interesting to say while they shuffled toward the door. _I had fun_ definitely was definitely not on that list of things to say though. Bart shouldn’t have asked his best friend out on a date. There. So—he was bad at being Impulseand _worse_ at being Bart Allen.

 

Yeah—a shot to the other knee should have covered his misery. Maybe an elbow and a pinky finger, too.

 

Just like earlier in the night, the brunet found himself leaning against the doorframe with Tim standing at the porch. He let out a miserable sigh and pressed his head against the door. “I’msorry.”

 

Tim’s expression softened. He stuffed his hands in his pockets (Bart’s sweatpants) and shook his head. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

 

“I got you _mad_ at me,” Bart pointed out. His eyebrows knitted together and he shook his head furiously. “ _Again._ ”

 

“Bart.” Stiffness in his tone. Right now, Bart decided he should quit his day job as a speedster and become an expert at pissing Tim off. _Yeah_ —that probably paid a lot, considering Tim rarely ever got _mad._ He could open up an office. Accept all the clients that wanted to irk Tim but not exactly kill him. “I didn’t mean to raise my voice at you.”

 

“You were right.” With nice business cards that had his face and the Flash insignia up in the corner. _Bartholomew Henry Allen_ , Ph. D in irritating Battish Birds. “You’re— _always_ right, okay? Or maybe you were wrong but—Idon’tcare. I just…” Bart sucked in a breath. “I don’t like it when you’re mad at me.”

 

“I don’t _like_ being mad at you either, Bart.” Tim’s frown deepened. Warm fingers found themselves on the side of Bart’s face. They pulled the speedster up and straightened him out until Tim had a perfect view of him. His demeanor broke—truly, clearly sad. “I’m sorry.”

 

“Me too,” Bart whispered, and he forced himself to look into Tim’s eyes. His heart ached in his chest, gaze glued to the boy that stood parallel to him. The heat of Tim’s fingers meshed comfortably at the base of Bart’s jaw tingled—and he knew right there and then, all he wanted was to stand there in Tim’s presence.

 

Only he was an idiot. One that screwed up the mission, screwed up the date, and—

 

Wow, Tim was moving in very close. Super close. Incredibly close—to the point his breath tickled Bart’s mouth—

 

“Whatareyoudoing?” Instinctively the speedster snapped out of his thoughts. He blinked two dozen times and craned his neck in order to create space between them and stared at Tim in confusion.

 

The only thing Tim could do was flash a look of his own. His eyes flickered, an emotion surfacing in his orbs that Bart couldn’t quite decipher, and his lips twitched. Not into a smile. Instead, the other teen pulled away, hand pressed his face and red glowing in his ears. “Wow. I just thought—”

 

“Was there something on my face?” A brown eyebrow darted in the air. “Like, a spaghetti-o or some—”

 

“No, Bart.” Tim backed away and his eyes darted to the floor. One thing was for sure—he wasn’t _happy._ “Never mind. Sorry. I’ll…see you later.”

 

Wait. But—“Tim. Hey—come _back_.”

 

Too late. Tim gave one glance over his shoulder—then walked away without another word. 


	7. Date (Revised)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somehow, he was going to blame Wally for faulty dating advice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I recommend listening to the song "Ed Sheeran" when it flips over to the next scene; and [here's a picture of the kiss](http://kingburu.tumblr.com/post/44123971967/and-ill-throw-it-all-away-watched-you-fall-into)!

Following the terrible evening, Bart decided to at least figure out _some way_ to salvage the remains. Some way to cheer himself up.

 

“Hi, Nightwing. Don’t worry—I can wait a minute, you can go put some pants on.”

 

“Oh, uh. Hi…Bart.”

 

Staring dismally at the leader of Young Justice, Bart shrugged, allowing his shoulders to meet his ears, then leaned against the doorframe expectantly. With or without his superspeed, he knew it was always better to knock when it came to visiting his favorite (well, only) cousin. Grandma and Grandpa were confused when they came back to the Garrick Residence and found Carol in Robin’s place. The house had been cleaned up with the twins put to bed. Grandma Iris agreed to take Carol back home for the night and Grandpa Barry, feeling generous, ran Bart to Keystone City where he could see his cousin.

 

They’d found him sitting on the steps of the porch, eyes glued to the path Tim took to leave the house.

 

Tim hadn’t come back.

 

Waiting on the steps of his house, he wasn’t sure what to expect. There wasn’t a manual on what to do if your date went terribly wrong because babies pooped on your date’s shoe—and if there was, it wasn’t common enough that Bart could grab it in his current state. He was determined to mention that little fact when he saw Wally because—

 

Well, somehow out of this, he was going to blame Wally for faulty date advice.

 

He teetered to the small loveseat in the apartment’s living room where Brucely (Wally’s dog) happily made space for the teen, then rested his head in Bart’s lap. Green eyes looked up, nearly lifeless to the tall acrobat on the other side of the room. _Sigh._ Dick arched a careful eyebrow in the air, taking in the image of Bart curled into a ball at the sofa. “Want to talk about it?”

 

Bart leaned over and rested his head over the dog’s. He buried his face into Brucely’s skull and shook his head violently, until all he could hear was the swish of his own hair. Which was okay. In his head, Bart decided he would do very well if it was just Brucely and him against the world. He was small enough—Brucely and he could ride away and start a path like Secretariat—only, you know. With dogs.

 

“Right. Um—” Dick stopped when he didn’t get an immediate response. He turned his head toward the bedroom door and crossed his arms. “Hey, man. Bart’s here.”

 

There was a crash. AKA—Wally must have fallen out of the bed when he heard his boyfriend. Close enough to the bedroom door, Bart heard a _‘dammit’_ and _‘fuck_ ’ before the door was pulled open and Wally popped his head out. Green eyes glued to green—one pair annoyed, the other heartbroken.

 

Bart waved. “Hi. Nice apartment. You picked up the noodle cups, didn’t you?”

 

A beat later, Wally sighed and scratched his head. At least he had the decency to put on a pair of pants before he came out of the room. “Can’t say I wasn’t expecting for you to come sooner or later.”

 

Bart turned his head and buried it in Brucely’s body once again. He muttered quietly, “Grandpa dropped me off.”

 

“Take it your date didn’t go very well?” Dick walked across the length of the room to stand side-by-side with his boyfriend.

 

The redhead blinked. “You had your date tonight?”

 

Bart shook his head and hugged Brucely tighter. “Tim got mad. Then he left.”

 

“He left?” Dick repeated. A frown fell across his face and he uncrossed his arms. Immediately he flashed a look in Bart’s direction, the confusion remaining. “I had to pry Tim about this date _all week_. How badly did it go?”

 

“Wait, wait, wait— _your date was with Tim?_ Robin? My _boyfriend’s_ _brother_?” Wally zipped to the couch.

 

Dick rolled his eyes and backhanded the elder speedster in the arm. He smirked when he noticed the smallest hint of a smile on Bart’s face.  “Too bad your _brain_ isn’t as the rest of you.”

 

Wally shrugged, mimicking a gesture his cousin usually showed. “He hasn’t barged into my apartment in five days. Forgive me if I’m not up to speed.” The quip earned a glare from the third Flash. Regardless, Wally turned back to his cousin and—“Is that my sweater?”

 

“If I say yes, will you still give me a pint of ice cream so I can drown my sorrows like in all of your romcoms?” Bart stretched with Brucely—and broke into a crooked, broken smile as the dog grunted and licked his face.

 

“He would if he didn’t eat the last of it ten minutes before you rang the doorbell.” Dick snorted—then the man sat comfortably to the right of Bart as Wally protested against the claim. For a moment, Bart blinked. Sometimes it was hard to think of _Wally’s boyfriend, Dick Grayson_ as the same _Nightwing_ that called orders with the team. Not too long ago the guy was annoyed because Bart decided to paint Cosmo from the Fairly OddParents on the ceiling of their new Tower. “Wanna tell us what happened?”

 

“Well…” Bart bit his lip. All the instances where he asked why Dick was so uptight, and Tim assured how _cool_ Nightwing was came to mind. Since Dick and Wally were practically married anyway—what harm could there be?

 

A sudden breeze caught his attention. Wally zipped down the hall into the linen closet, then reappeared with a pillow. He lifted Bart’s leg and rested it comfortably on the coffee table, giving his little cousin a sympathetic look. “You tell us what happened and I’ll tell you if you were being an idiot, Kid.”

 

“Gee. _Thanks._ I can feel the love.”

 

“You really should.” Wally settled to the right of Bart, forcing Brucely to scamper off and find a different nest. Over the young speedster’s shoulders, he shared a sickeningly sweet grin with his lover and bumped fists. _Ugh._

 

After a moment from wanting to barf from their lovey-dovey escapade (after Dick put some pants on too—Bart rolled his eyes in the ex-Boy Wonder’s way and mouthed, _‘MARRIED’_ when Nightwing wasn’t looking), he started from the beginning. The very beginning—asking Tim out on a Tuesday, at precisely 5PM when the sun was setting and created all these cool shadows on Tim’s face and the gleam pierced through the shades so Bart could get a tint of Tim’s sapphire blue ey—(“Fast _forward_ , B. FastFORWARD.” “Fine—but you _asked_ for the details.”)

 

He explained how the date went, from the moment Barry and Iris asked him to babysit the twins for the night, to the point Donny pooped on Tim’s shoe—the moment Tim got angry with him when Bart pressed to take off his brace, and then the end of the night.

 

“He just...moved in on me. Itwas _weird._ ” Bart made illiterate gestures with his hands, face stretching with exaggeration. “I mean—I was just…I-I was thinking to myself…how _nice_ it was having him touch me. Especially since the rest of the night went so badly. ThenIbackedaway. And. That wasn’t the right move. I made it worse. Then—Then he left.”

 

When he finally finished his story, Bart was met with sheepish smiles from the both of them. He turned to either men for a sharper explanation, but received a smack to the forehead by Wally instead.

 

“Ow!”

 

“Kid, you are an _idiot._ ” Wally cracked into laughter—joined by a few, constrained snickers from Dick.

 

“Yeah? Well—” Rubbing his forehead painfully, Bart scowled and crossed his arms fitfully.

 

“Bart.” Dick grabbed him by the shoulder, an eyebrow quirked in the air. “Tim was trying to kiss you.”

 

Blink. Blink, blink. “Uh, _what_?”

 

“From the way you make it sound, he was probably trying to cheer you up after you two had your argument.” A sympathetic smile spread across his lips—albeit, still amused, still a bit irritating. “When you backed away he must have thought he pulled a wrong move and left. He’s _embarrassed_ , Bart.”

 

“ _Seriously?_ ” Tim tried to kiss him. Tim tried to _kiss_ him. Tim tried to kiss _him. Tim_ tried to kiss him. Tim. Kiss. Tim! Kiss! Raising his head, Bart ran a hand through his hair. If that were the case, he wouldn’t have _minded_ being kissed. “If that’s it, I would have kissed him, _too._ ” Immediately he popped to his feet and reached over for his crutches—only was stopped, when his cousin dragged him back to the couch.

 

“Man, you’ve got it bad, don’t you?” Grinning, the redhead looked his cousin over.

 

“Iwell— _yeah._ ” Worry flashed in Bart’s eyes. “I’ddo _anything_ forTim.”

 

Surprise showed itself upon Dick’s face. On the other hand, his elder cousin only smirked. Wally slung a hand over his shoulder and grinned. “It’s the BatBite.”

 

“Batbite.” Uh. Bart turned his head to Dick, assuming Batman’s longstanding partner would have a better explanation, but Dick only rolled his eyes. Right. Lover of Wally West. Professional at translating Wally West—still pending.

 

“Yeah. It’s this thing where they put on that domino mask and just draw you in, like they’ve got a radar on speedsters or something like that. Why do you think they dress so _androgynously_?” Wally gestured in Dick’s direction, his smirk widening. “Once they have you, you’re _hooked._ They plan all this time to have you in their bowels—”

 

“Is that _really_ what you think of me?” Dick cut him off. Once again, Bart turned his head to the acrobat, who looked every bit amused by the accusation. He shared a laugh—childish, almost, like he was a teenager again.

 

“I’m just saying.” Wally pulled away, the amusement still fresh on his face. He nudged his cousin nonchalantly. “Speedsters and Bats get along. Even Uncle Barry admitted that Batman made him feel funny once in a while.”

 

“That’s because Batman was trying not to use _knockout_ gas on your uncle.” Dick snorted.

 

Wally ignored him. “Once you get the Batbite, you’ll be hooked to them for years.”

 

“You were in a longstanding relationship with _Artemis_ at the time.”

 

“Hey—I came back, didn’t I?”

 

“You had a thing for archers, though. Let’s not forget your big crush on Roy when Young Justice first _started._ ”

 

“What—? I did _not_ have a crush on Roy!”

 

By this point in the conversation, Bart had tuned out in favor of finding Brucely’s new hiding spot. Whenever Dick and Wally started bickering, it was hard to get a voice in. However, when the conversation leaned into Red Arrow—“ _Oh._ So you mean like that time Arsenal and I fooled around?”

 

—he managed to get both of their attention again. Wally cocked his head in his direction, eyes wide and jaw unhinged. “ _WHAT_? You and Arsenal did _what_?”

 

“Ohuh. Nothing.”

 

“No—oh no, _B._ You are going to tell me _exactly what the hell you mean_ by ‘fool around’ with Arsenal!”

 

The next five minutes consisted of Wally badgering Bart about Roy being Mr. Bad Touch (“Seriously—how far did you go with him?” “Uh—well. I mean, Pants were off—” “ _Gah._ ”) until Dick finally howled of laughter and managed to calm his boyfriend down. The topic was left lingering with a vicious grumble of vibrating hands through chests.

 

“You’re a lot more protective than you let on,” mused the acrobat. Somehow their positions on the couch had flopped, and Bart found himself perched at the furthest end of the coffee table away from his cousin. Dick petted his boyfriend affectionately, amusement teeming across his face was Wally huffed.

 

Bart blinked. Dick had a point—Wally had been keeping a careful eye on him since the accident. He’d forced Bart to confess his problems the day the brunet was checked out of the hospital and discussed the circumstance with both Nightwing and Grandpa only later that evening. Sure—one may have called it an invasion of privacy, but that was the reason why Bart had both Grandpa Barry’s first Flash Ring and Wally’s first Kid Flash ring tucked safely under his shirt. Green eyes looked to his cousin’s in amazement. Wow. “You really _do_ care.”

 

“Yeah—well—” Wally looked directly to his cousin, sanguine glowing in his cheeks. He gestured with his hands, making random shapes with his fingers that really didn’t matter. “Look. How about we go through the blunt explanation for you?”

 

“ _Please._ ” Bart handled _blunt_ well. Thinking just hurt his head.

 

“Robin is going to blame himself for the accident no matter what you say to him. I once almost exploded by the hand of the Joker—back when I was _fourteen_ , and Dick never lets me forget about it.” Wally batted his hand when the said man opened his mouth to speak and carried on. “It’s a matter of camaraderie. Since you got shot, you’ve been talking about doing more. Doing _better._ Which is good. But you’ve been dropping that goofball mask—which is no longer a mask, and thinking you’ve got to be serious all the time. You _don’t_. We—the fam, the team, and _me_ —just want to be happy. And satisfied instead of thinking you’re just a failure.”

 

Bart frowned. “I’m not _thinking_ I’m a failure.” He _was_ a failure.

 

“Then don’t let anyone else think you’re thinking that.” Wally raised his head, satisfied with himself. “Find a way to prove it to Rob. Because that BatBite makes a hard head out of these guys.” To make his point clear, he shouldered his boyfriend and smirked.

 

Great. Lying against the table, Bart’s eyes searching the ceiling. He heaved a thick sigh, frown contorting his lips. Wally knew everything up until this point—Bart just didn’t know what to _do_ about it. “So whatever I do, the thing with the artificial kneecap isn’t going to go away between us, is it?”

 

From the corner of his eye, Wally’s expression faltered for the first time that evening. The elder speedster shared an understanding (albeit painfully entertained) look with his boyfriend and rubbed his arm. “Well. Look at it this way—if the guy’s willing to stay with you after your dad pooped on him, I’d say he’s a keeper.”

 

Nope. That was more moding than when Bart first arrived. Groaning quietly to himself, he turned to his side and curled into a ball away from the two men.

 

The floorboards creaked as Dick stood to his feet. He kissed Wally on the temple and started for the bedroom. “I should probably go talk to him and make sure Tim’s okay before the mission tonight. He should be finishing up patrol with Batman pretty soon.”

 

Wait. Wait, wait, wait. Instantly Bart pushed off the table and shot a look to his cousin’s boyfriend and—well, his best friend’s brother. “You’re going to Gotham right now?”

 

Blinking warily at the young speedster’s reaction, Dick nodded. “Yeah—”

 

“Don’tgoyet.” Bart jostled off the table and stood to his feet.

 

“Hey.” Quickly Wally stood up and placed both hands on the brunet’s shoulders, a frown curled against his lip. “You shouldn’t be on your feet with that cast on. You know better than that.”

 

A smart remark rested on Bart’s tongue, but instead he blurted, “CanyoutakemetoGotham?”

 

He had an idea.

 

**xxx**

First the idea involved Wally running Bart to Gotham City. They stopped downtown, where the evening had already scared everyone away. After that, Bart propped himself on the nearest bus bench, sat down, and shooed his cousin away. Immediately he was met with protest, but Bart _insisted_ he wanted to be alone. It was midnight at Gotham City, and somehow out of it, Robin the Boy Wonder was going to show up. If he ran into any problems, he would text Wally about it.

 

(To that, Wally complained texting wasn’t _fast_ enough—to which Bart wholeheartedly agreed, then again, told the Flash to _buzz off._ Bart would call when he was done.)

 

He waited twenty minutes, staring across the street into an old antique shop across the street with a broken streetlight. During his test of patience he finally figured out why he hated waiting so much—it involved _waiting._ How did normal people _do_ that? Sitting around waiting for something to happen was so _boring_. Thankfully Bart found a speck of dust to follow with his eyes before a stray cat swatted it with its paw.

 

Just as the desire to leave, Robin showed up.

 

“Downtown is dangerous at this time of night.”

 

Bart cocked his head in the direction of the voice and let out a breath out. His heart throbbed. Robin tucked the grappling gun away in his utility belt. The too-short sweatpants and vomit-stained jacket had been replaced with the proper uniform—and Bart couldn’t help but think how he missed seeing Tim’s blue eyes beneath that black mask.

 

“I know,” he said when he found his voice again. “I figured you’d lecture me about it when you found me.”

 

“You don’t know for sure that I would have come,” Rob pointed out. He stood tense, but the break in his voice was enough to soothe Bart’s nerves. The speedster scrutinized his best friend once again and bit the inside of his mouth.

 

“I’msorry,” he blabbed, before another calm response could actually come to mind. “I’mreally—andI.” He made a sound, almost inhuman as he tried to conjure a verbal response. “Canwegosomewhere? I want to show you something.”

 

Beneath the opaque lenses he could see the other teen blink. It’d only been hours since their date disaster but to Bart it felt like an _eternity_. The gaps they had between seeing each other only made his chest hurt. _Throb._ He was fed-up. And he hoped that irritation showed on his face, and the fact Bart felt so pathetic that he was ready to run off with Brucely the Dog. He hoped _that_ showed on his face too.

 

Nightwing had yet to talk to his little brother. It took a lot of begging on Bart’s part, but he promised he would return Robin to the first Boy Wonder in one piece, so long as his plan went well.

 

“Where do you want to go?”

 

A sigh of relief left Bart’s throat. He staggered to his feet, crutches squeezed tightly in his hands and leaned toward Tim. “A wide open field somewhere on the outskirts of Gotham City. Somewhere where the two of us can be alone.”

 

Again, Robin looked hesitant. It did nothing but make Bart’s chest ache. All he wanted was to get Tim to smile and for Tim to smile—well, that would take an effort on his part. The elder teen pressed a hand against his utility belt, a soft _‘beep’_ echoing through the night. A moment later, a hum of a vehicle filled their ears and the R-Cycle revved down the street. Robin mounted his bike and scooted forward to make room for his teammate. Bart stared.

 

“Can you hold your crutches?”

 

“What? Oh—yeah.”

 

 Well, this was different. Normally Bart was the one giving rides to people—not the other way around. Given that he’d had a bad knee for over a week now, that was probably a given. He settled on the back of the bike carefully and hooked both crutches beneath his arm. After that, he wrapped his arms securely over Robin’s torso and felt the other teen jolt.

 

“Where to?” Robin’s voice cracked.

 

A hint of a smile quirked across Bart’s lips. He inhaled the scent of Robin’s aftershave, which was still present despite the hours apart and buried face into the other boy’s shoulder blade. Touching. Cuddling. He nearly forgot what he requested because of this. “Wide open space. Just the two of us away from all of the civilians.”

 

“Alright,” Robin muttered softly.

 

The wind rushed against them as the Boy Wonder took off in the car. Bart inhaled the scent of burning rubber as it treaded against asphalt. He closed his eyes, soaking in everything that was Tim, and felt the heavy cadence of Tim’s heartbeat against his cheek.

 

“I like holding you,” Bart whispered under his breath, even if Robin couldn’t hear him. If he could spend an eternity in Tim’s arms, then he was willing to give up everything else—super speed and all.

 

Robin kept up on his promise of taking them to a clearing. He’d cut across through a road-less area and traveled through a plain until they found an open field. The grass came up to Bart’s ankles, with wild flowers that he’d never seen before. The sky was dark and vast, blanketed with stars that gleamed like diamonds. The nearest clutter of trees had to be at least ten miles out.

 

Not that it mattered. Robin dismounted from the R-Cycle and helped Bart down from the seat. They tangled hands, and green eyes looked up to the face of the older teen. Moonlight glowed softly against Tim’s face, highlighting the contour of his cheeks and shining at his lips. Bart bit the inside of his mouth and breathed heavily. “Thanks.”

 

“Welcome.” Tim’s fingers curled tightly around his.

 

“Now—can you walk that way like, forty meters?”

 

“Uh…?” Even under the opaque lenses Bart could make out the sudden flicker of confusion on Tim’s face.

 

“Trust me.” A grin broke across his face and he half-heartedly shoved Tim in the opposing direction. “Now as Grandma says whenever I go too long without cleaning my room—‘ _Skooch yer booch!’”_ This time, a wary frown fell across his friend’s face, clearly unsure of where this was going. Standing on the tip of his toes, Bart pecked the boy on his cheek. He relished in the look of surprise he got in return, lips tingling. “Trust me. _Please_?”

 

This time, Tim _did_ listen to him. He pressed a gloved hand to his face, his eyebrows arched in cute stun, then backed away the promised forty meters. Knowing Tim, it was probably _exactly_ forty meters, too. Robin was smart. That was what made him amazing _._ Bart leaned against the R-Cycle and waited until Tim was the right distance away. They stared at each other steadily, never breaking eye contact. Crash.

 

“You were going to show me something?” The elder teen called loudly.

 

“Yeah.” Bart nodded and stood to his feet. Both of them. The soles of his shoes sat firmly to the ground and he threw his crutches aside. A trickle of discomfort ran through his injured leg, but he ignored it. Once his crutches hit the dirt, Tim stepped forward, eyes wide. “ _Wait._ ”

 

He could see Tim’s face stretch in panic, but shook his head.

 

“You’re not giving me the benefit of the doubt here,” Bart started. He leaned forward and loosened the knobs of his brace, eyes still glued to Robin. His best friend. “We both agreed that it was _both_ our faults for this happening. But you keep blaming yourself. And I still think it’s my fault. But. I can _run_ Tim. I’m a runner. And we need to get past this.” He lifted his leg and slipped the cast off. It fell to the ground, clanking noisily as it did so, and Bart toed it away.

 

From this distance Tim’s face as it paled to a discomforting white. Robin was completely frozen in spot.

 

Out of habit, Bart began to rock between his feet, transferring weight from one leg to another. He sucked in a nervous breath, his hands curled into fists, and felt the energy tremor at his ankles. “That’s what runners do. They run and run and run until they meet their goal. And. I—I want you to be the first one that sees me run with the brace off.”

 

The power bristled in Bart’s tennis shoes. He could feel it coil in the pit of his stomach in a series of knots that climbed up his spinal cord and trembled with anticipation.

 

His hands curled so tightly until his nails dug into flesh. Bart’s eyebrows pinched together and he looked to Robin pleadingly. “Okay?”

 

 _Please say yes. **Please** say **yes.**_ Robin looked to him, his expression a blank slate for a heartbeat too many—and finally, nodded. “Okay.”

 

Good. Bart’s lungs filled with air until he was choking on his own anxiety. He juggled weight between his legs and stretched his calves. Slowly, Bart bent to a crouch and curled his fingers into the ground.

 

His heart leaped into his throat, and he broke into a run. _WOOSH!_

 

The wind slapped against his face in a way that riding on a bike or piggybacking on someone else’s speed never could. The electricity and lividness spiraled around Bart’s legs, and he rocketed through the open field in the blink of an eye. His hair whirled backward against the current, feet treading against crunching grass.

 

And for the first time in five days, Bart laughed with glee.

 

Bits of dirt stuck to his line of sight, but he could have cared less. He was _running_.

 

Bart circled the field at least three times, seeing the mannequin-like figure of Tim in the center of things, and upped his speed another ten miles. _660mph. 665mph. 680mph—_ Bart ran a radius of 500 miles, sprinting around and through the outskirts of Gotham City. His heart fell into beat with his footsteps and again—he laughed.

 

In the back of his mind, he knew both Wally and Artemis and Grandpa and Grandma and Jay and Joan were all going to kill him for taking the brace off a week too early. As he ran back to the open field, he could feel the discomfort as it tapped against his kneecap again—a soft strain that didn’t hurt too badly. There was a falter in his step as he hit the higher speeds—and there probably always would be.

 

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t run it.

 

He caught sight of Tim, who still stood in the middle of things as Bart ran back. Doing the calculations in his head, he couldn’t have been gone longer than a minute or two. The closer Bart got to his beacon, the easier it was for him to define that face. The observant eyes that were ghosted by white lenses. The contour of Tim’s face—strong, structured, and authoritative. Tim’s brow, as it wrinkled every time something troubling happened, and the ebony hair that despite years of cropping back, was now growing and dangling in the Boy Wonder’s face.

 

Most of all, Bart caught sight of the curve in Tim’s lips, and the proud smile that adorned it.

 

He let out a breathy laughter and decelerated into Tim’s arms. “ _Oof!_ ”

 

Tim’s surprised cry met his ears, and he fell over from the sudden impact—Bart’s weight on top of him and all. They tumbled into dirt with grass crushing beneath them, and rolled across flowerbeds that had been ruined when Bart ran into him. More than once he felt his back hit the ground until they finally came to a steady halt.

 

Green eyes opened, staring down at the domino mask beneath him. Mud smudged Robin’s face, along with flowers and twigs that stuck out of his hair in odd ends. Bart was sure he looked no better—probably worse, since he could feel something digging into his skull. It was the last thought on his mind, however, as his gaze fixated on the smile on Robin’s face.

 

His hands curled against Robin’s breastplate, and an arm strapped tightly on the small of his back. Craning his neck, Bart took in the entire sight of his best friend and felt the breath on his nose. He wriggled, leg curling against Robin’s side.

 

“Hi.” He smiled.

 

“Hi,” Robin said back. “McFly.”

 

“Doc.” Then, Bart kissed him.

 

He pressed his lips against the elder teen’s, feeling the smoothness of Tim’s lower lip between his own. _Warmth._ Tim’s breath tingled against him, the lack of anticipation evident in the Boy Wonder’s sudden yelp, but that didn’t last long. Bart’s fingers roamed against the Robin uniform until they pressed against the mold of the elder teen’s face and he tilted his head to capture Tim’s mouth a better angle. He felt the underside of Tim’s gloves as it ran across his back, across his shoulder blades, and shuddered as Tim pinched his sides.

 

Tim’s jaw moved against his own, and he raised his head to meet Bart’s eagerness.

 

They parted when the last breath left them. Bart panted, feeling the musky glow in his cheeks and looked down to Tim, who looked as stunned and numb in the brain as the speedster felt. He focused on the rise-and-fall of Tim’s chest and the hint of a coy grin across his face.

 

“I’msorry,” Bart blurted nervously, and the heat exploded in his cheeks. “WhenyouandIwereontheporchearlier, it wasn’t that I didn’twanttokissyou. In fact, Ilikekissingyou, kissing you is actually _realyreallynice_ , but I was just so _mad_ that the night didn’tgoasplannedand here you were, _tryingtosaveit_ and I ducked. Itotally _ducked._ I didn’t _meantoduck_ , if I realized you were kissing me, I totally would have let you because Ireallyreallylikekissingyou.”

 

When his thoughts and lungs finally caught up to him and his feet, Bart looked at the other teen guiltily, knowing he was probably the worst best friend and date in the world. He whimpered, eyebrows contorting and—did he mention he liked kissing Tim?

 

In his mind Bart was making a list of things he should do in order to make sure Tim forgave him. Cleaning off the Batmobile and picking up after the BatCat seemed like a good start. He was cut off from his current thoughts as Robin smiled again and kissed him again.

 

It was quick—but Bart knew how to work with quick. He stared down at Tim in disbelief, and was met with a hand brushing the twigs out of his hair.

 

“I like kissing you too.”

 

“Crash.” The grins they gave each other after that was enough to make Bart’s heart sing. Tim turned his head slightly in the grass, his lips twisted handsomely in its place—and then the demeanor broke. Tim’s smile disappeared, and he stared off into the space over Bart’s shoulder.

 

Oh. No, no, no. “What’s wrong?” They were just _happy_ again. There was kissing—lots of kissing. Bart was awake for that part. His eyebrows knitted together and he forcefully blocked Tim’s line of sight with a questioning look across his face. “I can run again. Everything’s okay. It’s—it’s fine, right?”

 

“Yes,” Tim said crisply. Then, “No.” A sigh left his lips and he rolled out from under the speedster. Sitting up, Robin leaned over his lap and pushed a hand through his own hair, with Bart anywhere but in his nearest proximity.

 

“ _Tim_.” Bart frowned. He sighed with frustration and reached over to tug at Tim’s arm. “You can’t keep shutting me out whenever something goes according to your _plan._ It…it hurts.” And he was running out of inspirational knee injuries to come out of.

 

A moment of silence passed, where Bart looked to the other teen and begged for another answer. Tim turned around, reached over, and pushed a lock of hair behind Bart’s ear. He smiled briefly, so Bart smiled too, then both faded away. Nothing.

 

“When you were on that boat,” started the Boy Wonder quietly, “and I heard you scream, I thought you were dead.”

 

 _What_?

 

“I thought I lost you like I lost my mom and dad. My heart stopped. And—the moment I found you standing at one end of the room and Deathstroke at the other, I realized…” Tim’s voice trailed off. “I realized I can’t afford to lose you.”

 

Oh _._ Bart blinked. Oh. “Tim, I can’t just sit around and do nothing.” The thought alone was laughable. He turned to his own body and faced his artificial kneecap. It was hard to even think of it that way, given the distance he’d just ran throughout Gotham City. _He was a runner._ “My grandfather’s the _Flash._ My Dad and Aunt Dawn become the _Tornado Twins._ You…” Bart’s eyebrows furrowed together as the possibility of _ever_ giving up being a hero truly played out in his mind.

 

It made him sick to his stomach. To even _think_ he’d ever stop running.

 

But for Tim—to see a smile across his face and to spend every moment that Bart’s feet didn’t touch the ground in _Tim’s_ arms. That was worth it. It was worth it, right?

 

“I don’t want you to _stop_ running either,” muttered the taller teen before Bart had the chance to get annoyed. Tim’s brow wrinkled together and he shook his head disdainfully. The struggle was evident on his face—what to say, what not to say. But as always, Tim had a better hold on his poker face than Bart ever could. “It’s…it’s complicated. Never mind.”

 

Right. _Everything_ was _always_ complicated.

 

A loud sigh left Bart’s lips and he fell backwards, eyes glued keenly to the sky. “Red Robin and Nightwing made me read books in the future. _Lots_ and _lots_ of history books. I remember everything I read, so retaining the information was never the problem. But I wish one of those books taught me how to deal with growing up and feeling… _things._ With you. With the family. Life would be so much _easier_ if it read like a book.”

 

 The stars arranged themselves into an illegible scripture, forming different characters that left Bart with a headache. They gleamed from above, but for some reason he could only think of them as bothersome.

 

“Sorry.” Tim choked on his own voice, weak and broken. From the corner of his eye Bart could see the boy’s eyebrows furrow beneath his mask, and his lips curling—disgusted with himself. “I try to keep my feelings separated.”

 

“No. Nonono, it’s fine.” Bart looked to the other teen and felt his heart flutter. He reached over, giving a gentle nudge to Tim’s arm. “I like it when you tell me how you feel. I—I just wished…sometimes you and I…if we just felt the same way at the same time at the same _pace_ , you know?” Yeah. That definitely would have been easier. He looked back up to the sky.

 

For a beat, he wasn’t given any form of response, and took it as encouragement to continue. Bart swallowed hard, extending his limbs as far as possible until he felt a finger curl against Robin’s. With a slight tilt of the head, green eyes looked to the white opaque lenses across from him.

 

“They…taught me about my speed. What I heard about Wally and the others were always bedtime stories told by my parents before they both died. What I learned from Red and Wing—to them, it was history. Vital history. Then one day, Red Robin handed me a notebook both Dick and Wally spent their early years filling out for a theoretical time machine.” He’d jumped at the chance to go back and meet the family he’d lost. “I couldn’t have said yes fast enough.”

 

“Whatever happened to them?” Tim turned his head and took in the sight of the brunet.

 

Unfortunately Bart could only shake his head. Faintly in a chasm of his mind he could recall the sound of one of the many bunker doors being forcefully opened by explosives—and the loud, thunderous quake as footsteps pounded down the stairs—taking down _every bit of tech_ as foot soldiers tore through their hideout. “The bunker they used got discovered before we could get started building the time machine. Red Robin and Nightwing told me to run—I was the vital part of their mission, after all.”

 

Shortly after that, he’d run into Nathaniel Tyron—Neutron. Just like him, Nathaniel had the inhibitor collar strapped to his neck—but the moment Bart volunteered to rip the retched binding off, the man fell  into hysteria. It was the only thing keeping him safe, Neutron had shouted at him, from _hurting_ people. From hurting heroes, like the Flash.

 

Once Nathaniel gained his trust, he became a tagalong for all of Bart’s scavenging missions for scrap metal. He couldn’t afford to look back—not after all of the planning Red and he had done. Bart explained all of this to Tim, voice as quiet as the crickets that chirped in hidden clumps of grass, with only their thoughts and gestures louder than themselves.

 

“I never even learned their _names_.” He frowned, closing his eyes and recalling the two men that saved his life. They were tall and broad, like the Batman of this era. Worn, from years of war against unwanted intruders, and _tired_ of all the pain and suffering. And yet here he was now—living, and knowing that in forty years that history would not climax to one point. It was enough to pity—enough to laugh at. “I just keep wondering what they would say to me now. Seeing me with that collar strapped to my neck—or, just to see what I could have done. Maybe they could tell me how I could move on.”

 

He never got to say _goodbye_ to the people that mattered to him most in the past.

 

The realization brought tears to his eyes.

 

“Bart—”

 

“No. No, it’s fine—” There was a hitch in Bart’s voice and he wiped the tears away from his eyes before Robin could take notice. At that moment, a heavy _beep_ rang from Tim’s utility belt, and Bart knew the sound very well. One that he’d been lacking on his person since his last mission. He sat up and took in the Boy Wonder’s frozen look, then sucked in a breath. Locking gazes with the other teen, Bart brushed the grass and dirt off of himself. “That’s Nightwing telling you to come to the base, isn’t it?”

 

The look on Robin’s face definitely wasn’t a ‘ _no._ ’

 

Before he could get a proper response from his friend (who, he realized with a sinking heart, had just turned him down. Sort of. Kind of. The nearly-dying put him at a loss because Bart couldn’t think of what to say in his own defense), Bart stood to his feet and dusted off his pants. He stood in front of the elder teen, held a hand out and stared at him carefully. “Let me take you, at least. I can run you there faster than the zeta beam tube can transport you.”

 

It took more time than it should have for Robin to accept the hand. His gaze turned to Bart’s palm, mouth tight in a straight-line, and Bart felt the hope shrink in his chest.

 

When Tim agreed, Bart scooped Robin up and sprinted to Happy Harbor without another word.

 

**xxx**

To say he caused an uproar for showing up without his leg brace was an understatement. The entire run to their new tower had been silent, with Bart too lost in his thoughts to try any sort of conversation. Robin refused to look him in the eye, to mumble even the quietest word—and killed the speedster inside altogether.

 

He leaped up the steps of the Tower, Robin still in his embrace as he made it to the Main-Ops room. Even before he skidded to a halt, he could see the shocked, speechless looks on every one of his friends’ faces as he dispensed Tim amongst the group.

 

They all stared at him—from Arsenal to  Wonder Girl—and down to the pair of legs that Bart was getting used to running with again. Even Nightwing, who was in the middle of briefing for the new mission, forgot what he was saying as the short speedster planted his feet to the ground.

 

“Bart,” said the team leader. Nothing more. Only a few hours ago, Dick had been unmasked and giving relationship advice to the brunet with his boyfriend. Right now, Bart felt much less welcomed than before.

 

“You can walk again.” Blue Beetle broke the barrier of silence and stepped forward, placing a solid hand on Bart’s shoulder.

 

He shook at the touch, but even Bart couldn’t ignore the way everyone in the room burned him with their looks. Rotating his ankles, he felt the soft-but-not-uncomfortable click in his knee and stood flat, with the soles of his shoes against the floor. “I can run, too.”

 

Nightwing stared at him carefully. Some part of his brain must have broken, given just like Tim, he lacked an immediate response. “I can see that.”

 

“Do you need a speedster?” Biting the inside of his mouth, Bart decided the best route to go was a direct one. His heart throbbed in his chest, and his hands curled into fists. “I can—”

 

“You’re still out of commission for another week. Neither Black Canary nor Artemis have approved you to go on any missions.” Immediately the man frowned and shook his head. Nightwing’s demeanor broke only slightly, and he pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers.

 

They were both thinking the same thing—if Wally was in the room, he would have killed his boyfriend by now for letting Bart even step foot in Happy Harbor. Yet the grimace that he was met with, along with the lack of enthusiasm from his teammates made him angry. Bart did a quick sweep of the room—none of his teammates were willing to look him in the eye. Not even Jaime—not even _Tim._

 

He couldn’t believe it.

 

“So what?” He couldn’t _believe_ it. Bart’s hands unfurled at his sides, his mind running too fast for even _him_ to catch up. “I’m _better_. You saw me running here with Robin all the way from _Gotham._ That’s not—that isn’t enough for you?”

 

“The mission doesn’t require your services for the evening, Bart. You aren’t on the roster.” The look of professionalism remained across Nightwing’s features, his jaw tight and expression scolding. The commander of Young Justice raised his head. He tapped a button on his gauntlet, and the holoboard behind him changed.

 

“So when am I going to be on a mission again? You took my _comm.-link_ away, remember?” He wasn’t allowed to go on missions for another week, despite _running into the room._ They were writing him off—assuring Bart that they would call him for a later mission even though they’d taken his only connection to the team _away._

 

The crisp image behind Nightwing caught his attention only seconds later. A man—tall and gruesome, ten times Bart’s body frame, with slick armor and ammunition strapped to every part of him. Beneath the mask, Bart could even make out his sick and twisted smile through the hologram.

 

_Deathstroke._

“You’re going after Deathstroke,” Bart muttered incredulously. His hands trembled, the moisture in the back of his throat suddenly evaporating. He felt the sweat permeate at his forehead—remembered the heavy clamps of boots as they walked down the platform of the ship. Remembered metal pressed against his flesh—and the fire of a gun. Bart stifled a fearful gasp and forced himself to look up to Nightwing’s gaze. “That’smymission. You need me on it.”

 

Deathstroke was the cause of all of it. All of the pain, all of the confusion. And given the opportunity, Bart was ready to punch the man in the good eye.

 

“You’re not ready.”

 

“But—”

 

“ _Bart._ You’ve only gone a week of physical therapy and have yet to talk it over with Black Canary. To allow you back on the field right now would jeopardize the mission. You would do more _harm_ than good.” Nightwing’s jaw tightened. He stood parallel to Bart—but the only difference was, one of them wasn’t trembling. “For all you know, it could land you in the hospital _again._ Don’t risk your life before you’re fully healed based on one impulsive decision.”

 

Impulsive.

 

_Impulsive._

**_Impulsive._ **

 

The word pierced a painful dagger in his heart and twisted violently. It tasted bitter on his tongue and made him want to vomit all over the word. It didn’t seem _right._ All of a sudden he couldn’t help but hate the word— _hate himself_ —and in that same moment, it clicked.

 

Bart whirled around to his teammates, who had been silent through the entire debate and felt his heart choke in his throat. They flinched as he turned—Cassie wincing, Jaime _cringing._ Worst off, none of them looked ready to vouch for him.

 

“So you guys don’t want me on the field either?” he asked, voice shaking. Bart was so angry that he could feel himself vibrating. When he didn’t get a response, it only made him angrier. He swallowed hard, hands at his sides and ignoring Nightwing when he was addressed again. “You guys all agree then? I’m an _impulsive idiot_?”

 

Nothing.

 

“Fine.” Bart zipped off, out of the room, out of the Tower—and as far away from Happy Harbor as possible.

 

Get Tim to trust him again. Get the team back. Get the team to _like_ him again. Get… _himself_ to like him again, because he was tired of _hating_ himself.

 

All of it. Bart set out west, his feet digging into the ground as he ran, and promised he was going to do _all of it._


	8. Proof

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He pressed a hand to his face and bit the inside of his mouth. “Fine. Maybe I wanted to find Bar…Impulse, myself. I’m the reason why we all got into this mess—Bart included. My fault. My mistake. My chance to fix it.”

“Sorry that I had to yell at your boyfriend.”

 

“He’s not my boyfriend.” Sitting at the edge of the launch bay, Robin had his fingers laced together, gaze fixated on the ground beneath them. They were eight stories high, prepping for takeoff an hour after Bart had zoomed off without a word. And when it came to Bart—an hour in his time could have meant a lot of things. None of them good at this point. “You were right to yell at him.”

 

Nightwing slowly approached the platform and sat down to catch his brother’s eyes.

 

They were to board at any moment. Bart had been right in his accusation—they were still going after Deathstroke with no answers. The assassinations he’d caused had been jagged—toying. To the point that it no longer seemed like Deathstroke’s style, which only bothered the older members even more. Teams would disperse to all locations, interview the victims, find pieces of evidence. Alpha would do further inspections, isolate the points Deathstroke had been spotted most commonly, and hopefully find a secret base.

 

Again, Tim found himself in charge of Beta. They were to inspect San Francisco once again for the possibility that a secondary base had been built there. For some reason, Deathstroke had been spotted there _twice—_ and it was his mission. Robin’s chance—his _team’s_ chance to redeem itself after Bart’s accident.

 

He wouldn’t have had it any other way.

 

Unlike Bart, who had been instructed to stay away from Happy Harbor (save his physical therapy sessions), Tim knew how his team felt: angry. Frustrated, and ready to come back with the spoils of redemption for the shot. He took the biggest hit because he was leader, but that didn’t mean his team didn’t feel just as badly for their comrade’s injury. And—well, no one wanted to see Bart hurt again. Not after the first time.

 

“I didn’t yell at him because he deserved it, Tim. You know that, right?” A hand touched the Boy Wonder’s shoulder, pulling him out of his thoughts. Dick looked at him sternly from behind the mask, his lips curled into a frown.

 

“You did it so he wouldn’t hurt himself more than he already has because of the mission. I know that.” Nodding solemnly, Robin turned his attention back to his mentor. “That’s why you’re leader. You know when to make the call.”

 

The hand on his shoulder squeezed firmly, and Tim couldn’t help but sigh. When he looked back to Nightwing, he was met with a frown. “Just because I made that call doesn’t mean you don’t have the right to react to it. As your leader, I’d rather you went with the decision.” His voice tapered off. He reached out once more, pulling the teen’s head up just slightly so he was assured Tim was looking at him. “As your brother, I want to make sure you’re okay.”

 

Right. This was his brother after all. There was no one that knew how to read him better when Tim was hurting. He swallowed the lump in his throat and pulled away, hand clasped over his cape. “I turned him down.”

 

“Why?” The look on Dick’s face registered in surprise.

 

“I got scared.” He explained what had happened in the field and focused on the joy he felt whenever Bart could finally run again. How when he kissed Bart back, the high adrenaline and excitement from earlier that night made him happy. Then his fear. Tim rubbed his temples and felt his chest ache. “I kept thinking about that day. How he screamed. He can run now but—he can go back into it and risk his life. Maybe die.”

 

It had been a fear that hadn’t even registered in his mind until Bart kissed him. Until he felt the heat of the other boy pressed snugly against him, with hands tight around his face, lips mouthing his own. Feeling that heartbeat as it thrummed against his own, and fingers as they lividly padded his skin— _reaching_ , and desperate for human contact with another living being.

 

“Tim,” Dick’s demeanor contorted, and Tim sighed, regretting everything he’d just mentioned. The look on Nightwing’s face was indescribable, completely void as the leader of Young Justice, but clearly dumbstruck as Dick Grayson—Tim Drake’s oaf of a big brother.

 

“Sorry,” he muttered roughly under his breath. Fear and pain were hard to compartmentalize on either account. “I can’t—I know I can’t keep him in a cardboard box. I can’t.” He just wanted Bart to be safe.

 

“You don’t have anything to be sorry about. I can’t tell you what your threshold is on pain, bro.” Beneath the mask, Nightwing’s eyebrows pinched together. He sighed and brought his hand down, resting it carefully around his brother and pulling the younger boy in a silent embrace. “I’ve been there. Everyone has. Everyone has their _fears_ about what’s going to happen. But it’s just what we do. It’s…easier, to rely on the faith we have in one another than stagger back in fear.”

 

“Fair point.” Bart was still a hero, with or without the past influences that changed him. It was in his blood. Right then, Tim realized even he hated himself a little for confessing how bothered he was about Bart running again. His hands curled into each other, and he stood to his feet. “Thanks.”

 

“No prob.” Nightwing smiled—then smirked wryly. “I heard how your date went.”

 

Right. It seemed so long ago that Tim nearly forgot about it. He thought back to the entire evening—of tripping, fending off babies just as he tried to help out, and pressed a hand to his face to hide the amusement as it formed in his demeanor. It was so humiliating that he wanted to laugh. “His dad pooped on my shoe.”

 

“I’ve had aliens, monsters, and Luther attack while I was on a date with someone.” Nightwing patted the Boy Wonder sympathetically on the shoulder and laughed. “Hahaha. But I’ve never had something _that_ bad happen to me.”

 

“He says we still did better than what Wally and you would have done.”

 

“Hahahaha. Uh. Fair point _.”_

Just then, the familiar blur of the Scarlet Speedster streaked down the floor level of the base. They saw his form as the Flash treaded water, onto the shoreline and dashed through the Tower until he, too, reached the launch bay. Flash decelerated to the mixed group of Alpha, Beta, and Gamma, who were collected near the Bioship and prepping for the mission. Nightwing and Robin both stood to their feet and walked the length of the room to meet him.

 

“You missed the briefing,” Nightwing informed. He crossed his arms, the disapproval showing on his face.

 

On the other hand, Wally shook his head, lips contorted worriedly. He pushed the cowl away from his face, brushing it aside over red hair and looked to every corner of the room hurriedly. “Sorry. Had to do a thing for the Aunt and the Uncle at the last minute. Now I’m looking for the cousin.”

 

“What do you mean?” Blue Beetle asked. He turned his head and looked Robin in the eye, clearly puzzled. In return, all Tim could do was shrug, matching the other teen’s look of confusion.

 

Shaking his head, Nightwing handled the conversation. “He stormed off about an hour ago. We haven’t seen him since.”

 

“Yeah. A fifteen-year-old kid limping around on a pair of crutches and a leg brace weighing more than he does.” Wally shook his head, a mocking look on his demeanor as he mimicked his boyfriend’s body stature by crossing his arms. “Even with _Bart’s_ determination, he wouldn’t have made it out of the city within the hour.”

 

“He’s not exactly on crutches anymore.” Nightwing explained the situation.

 

“He did _what_?” Wally’s hands curled into fists. He paced back and forth, vibrating loudly in his spot and threw his arms in the air. “I’m going to kill him. No—first I’m going to find him, then I’m going to yell at him, _then_ I’m going to kill him.”

 

“I take it the gesture was more touching when it was just the two of you,” Dick muttered under his breath. He nudged Tim in the arm and snorted. There was no telling how long it would take before Wally stopped being rampant.

 

“Still terrifying,” Tim muttered back. “But…yes.” He tore his attention away from the fitful speedster when he saw the grimace on Cassie’s face.

 

“Bart’s running around without his leg brace on, and we don’t know if his knee is fully healed yet. He knows that the mission we’re on involves Deathstroke.” She turned her head to the Boy Wonder, frown deepening.

 

“And,” Jaime announced, “It’s _Bart_. Put two and two together, ese.”

 

Wally finally stopped his tantrum enough to catch the last bit of their conversation. He looked to them, then scowled. “Oh. He better _hope_ Deathstroke destroys him. Because when I get to him, he is so _dead_.”

 

**xxx**

 

The only thing they could do was go through with the mission. If it was what Wonder Girl and Blue Beetle both predicted, then Bart would be searching on foot to draw Deathstroke out. Beta was to take the Bioship all the way to the San Francisco area in order to seek out the mercenary, and Alpha would take the Supercycle to search the California-Arizona border where plenty of Deathstroke’s reckless attacks had taken place.

 

As far as Tim knew, Wally had yet to inform the family. The man had flashed him a look—wild and panicked, but all Robin could afford to do was wince. He’d been the last one to see Bart—alone—before the brunet sped off in anger. Flash panicking, in contrast to Nightwing, involved freaking out vocally. Dick would lock himself up in his head—but for both, it was clear they were capable of something reckless. Right before their mission, Nightwing pulled the teen aside and assured him he would keep Wally in check.

 

It wasn’t his fault, Nightwing assured him.

 

“You’re surprisingly calm about this entire situation.” Cassie turned around from her seat up from up front and looked to Tim suspiciously.

 

“Have to be,” he replied truthfully. There was no point for him to panic when everyone did back at the tower.  “Bart’s in San Francisco.”

 

At the declaration, everyone turned from their current duties to stare Robin down. For the most part, Nightwing allowed him to salvage the same teammates from the last time he was in charge. Nightwing wanted the team powerhouses—otherwise, the senior members of the team—for alpha.

 

That left him with Wonder Girl, Beast Boy, Blue Beetle, and Lagoon Boy at his side, all of whom were looking at him as though he’d grown a second head.

 

“Sometimes I know what he’s thinking.” Other times were educated guesses that were usually the opposite of what Bart intended. “It’s the only line he has that leads back to Slade Wilson. He didn’t pay attention to the rest of the briefing the last time we were there.”

 

“You so sure about that?” Gar blinked.

 

“Very.” Jaime snorted and leaned over the seat before giving their resident Boy Wonder a look. “He got distracted by the Chicken Whizees in his hands, so I had to take them away. Bart has the attention span of a _gnat_ , the future he came from aside. Makes a lot of sense.”

 

“So then, you mean to tell us you let Flash freak out about his cousin while you knew all along that Allen went to SanFran?” Lagoon Boy whistled appreciatively and sported a grin. “That’s a pretty gillsy move for you there, minnow.”

 

“And _ballsy._ ” Gar arched an eyebrow. He unstrapped himself from his seat and swung near the Boy Wonder, until he dangled over Robin’s seat incredulously. “I mean. I’ve known the team since I was eight and Nightwing _still_ scares me.”

 

“I didn’t know right away. It’s just speculation—honest. It would be pointless to send different squads out based on a stupid _theory._ ” Still, Tim couldn’t help the anxiety he felt. He looked to his teammates, who clearly lost interest in navigating the ship, and sighed. He pressed a hand to his face and bit the inside of his mouth. “Fine. Maybe I wanted to find Bar…Impulse, myself. I’m the reason why we all got into this mess—Bart included. My fault. My mistake. My chance to fix it.”

 

He prepared himself to be lectured by his teammates. When it didn’t come, he removed the hand from his line of sight and was met with synchronous grins from all of them. Robin blinked—and Gar landed happily in his lap.

 

“Glad we’re all on the same boat here then.” Gar smirked.

 

Um. “Uh?”

 

“Tim.” Cassie shook her head in response to the teen’s declaration and frowned. “We were _there_ when the accident happened. We were saving people, and Deathstroke had the nerve to strike. You’re not the only one at fault because of what happened to Bart—team leader or _not._ ”

 

“The little minnow’s been crazy since the accident happened. More so than usual.” La’gaan puffed. “Let’s get him back before he ends up exploding half the city.”

 

“Great. So we’re all in agreement here.” Jaime crossed his arms in approval. “Our leader thinks we should find Bart, so we’re going to go find Bart. Si?”

 

“Si,” said everyone else in unison.

 

Robin looked around the team in surprise, who were all in consensus. They looked back to him, all in anticipation for the next move. One that would be disobeying orders—but would play in Tim’s favor. Everything that had gone on during the week made him forget all about his team. They were right—all of them were angry for Bart’s position in the situation. All of them had been teammates for over two years—and friends, too. His lip twitched. “We could blame it on teen rebellion.”

 

The sound of cheers never sounded more pleasant to his ears.

 

“Can’t believe you of people are willing to lie to Nightwing about what we’re doing.” La’gaan spared him a look, one that probably meant, ‘ _Props to you, minnow._ ’

 

To that, Tim couldn’t help but shrug. Nightwing needed him—but no one on his team was willing to move forward unless they had Bart back. “I lie to Batman.”

 

The rest of the trip was made in bated silence. They lowered the volume of their comms. at the risk of a senior member contacting them and theorized all the places Bart may have gone to sulk if he weren’t directly dealing with Deathstroke. Video game stores, fast food joints—which made sense in conjecture. (“No,” Tim said instantly, “he doesn’t eat when he’s upset.” To which all his teammates eyed him, and Robin hoped his face hadn’t as red turned as his uniform.)

 

Finally, they decided on a starting point: the hospital that Bart spent most of his days in.

 

Setting the ship to camo-mode and docking it above the rooftop, they exited in silence. Cassie shivered, grabbing Robin by the arm and flying him to ground level as Blue did with Lagoon Boy.

 

“Thanks,” he murmured.

 

She looked to Tim, blue eyes inquisitive and a blond eyebrow arched in the air. “You think in a few years we’re going to be the ones in charge of Young Justice instead of Nightwing and them?”

 

“Maybe.” The thought had crossed his head once or twice in the past. He couldn’t help but frown at the sudden question. “Nightwing and the original members are pretty firm on staying. After all, they’re the ones who founded it.”

 

The look on her face implied something else.

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

“Nothing.” Shrugging noncommittally, she offered a quaint smile and started the path towards the hospital. “The original members were our age whenever they founded the team.”

 

“Oh, yeah.” Gar grinned, elbowing La’gaan in the shoulder. “They did it to piss off the league after being lied to in the face. Made a good team, too. Imagine if we found Bart _and_ Deathstroke. We’d be considered the team _badasses.”_

Badasses. Right. Leave it to his team to make a joke out of following orders Tim caught up with Cassie, unable to hide his smile as behind him, Jaime, Gar, and La’gaan threw out new team names. She looked to him with a pleasant smile, beautiful as ever and smirked mischievously. “Robin, Kid Flash, and Aqualad opted for a team whenever they thought the league didn’t treat them fairly. We’re not going to be heroes following under Nightwing’s orders still, by the time we’re in our thirties.”

 

“Have any ideas for a team name?”

 

“I’ll let you know when I think of one.” Wonder Girl nudged him kindly in the arm and shared a smile with him.

 

They recognized the first orderly when they entered the hospital. Beverley looked to them in surprise at the reception desk. “Hello, there. You guys are the second people to have shown up at the hospital.”

 

“Second?” Robin frowned. “Was Impulse here?”

 

“Yes, he was.” A nearby doctor—a plump old man with wire-rimmed glasses that were ready to fall off. Tim didn’t recognize the man, but he assumed this was probably the doctor that operated on Bart. “He was up and walking—running, even. I asked him all about his knee, but he didn’t seem too interested—”

 

“So what happened?” Blue asked before the man could ramble.

 

The doctor pushed his glasses up his face, eyes wide and bewildered. “He asked for one thing: directions to the library.”

 

**xxx**

They decided to make the journey on foot. Or rather—Tim found himself sky-high again alongside Lagoon Boy and Beast Boy, the green crow. Neither Wonder Girl nor Blue Beetle seemed bothered by the need to carry the pair. Instead, all were intrigued by the thought of _Bart_ at a library.

 

The moment Beverley mentioned Bart had gone to the San Francisco Public Library, Gar and La’gaan burst into laughter at the very thought. They exited toward their destination before doctors could get a good look at the green pair—and, consequently try to pluck their DNA for questioning.

 

“Bart. _Bart_ , at a library.” Jaime shook his head in amazement and looked over to their female teammate. “That’s like Arsenal beating you in a sparring match.”

 

“Glad to know you appreciate my abilities.” Cassie smiled wryly and looked down to the boy in her hands. “Any ideas?”

 

“I can only guess what he’s thinking some of the times.” Tim shrugged, a frown immediately coming to his lips. “I got the San Francisco part right. It’s everything else that doesn’t make sense.”

 

Bart had been upset when Tim reasoned why they couldn’t be together. He’d been even more upset, when he realized the team would go through their mission without him. To storm out of the Tower and—go to a library, did not seem like something Bart would do.

 

“Maybe he’s checking out more books on origami to pass the time,” Jaime mused.

 

Crow-Gar tittered, making soft chirps at the idea.

 

La’gaan crossed his arms. “You really think that?”

 

“Maybe. He _did_ create an entire zoo out of his hospital room.”

 

It took ten minutes to get there. As they entered the proximity of the building the groups of civilians caught their attention. Cars in surrounding streets exited the parking lot at an inhuman pace, some honking and others shouting at each other from windows. The cluster of people who didn’t occupy cars crowded the front of the library, shouts and screeches so loud that they reached the team’s ears.

 

The five teens exchanged looks, none of them good.

 

“Time to go down.” Robin placed a hand over his utility belt, curling it against a birdarang. Slowly, they made a cool descent and landed to the clump of people furthest away from the library. Nothing up front suggested anything hostile. People shrieked as they caught sight of the five heroes, and they winced.

 

“These people are _spooked_ ,” Blue grumbled. He froze up as a woman turned his way and glared at him. “They think we’re monsters.”

 

Wonder Girl managed to catch the attention of a little girl and her family after assuring them she was safe. “What seems to be the problem?”

 

She looked to them, bright-eyed and far too lucid for the situation, then pointed a tiny hand toward the building. “Ghosts! There’s ghosts in the building moving books around!”

 

 _Ghosts._ Really. Robin blinked, taking in the explanation without a word. Cassie looked over her shoulder, directly at the Boy Wonder, and clearly had no idea what to say either. She turned back to the girl, giving a friendly smile and thanked her for the explanation.

 

“Maybe he was trying to find Deathstroke and stopped because someone screamed ghosts?” Gar waved his hands around.

 

La’gaan snorted. “I wouldn’t put it past him.”

 

Fortunately the crowd of people separated when they finally noticed the team. Robin accounted it to the uniforms. He, Jaime, and Cassie took the lead as they entered the building. The San Francisco Library was four stories high, with high ceilings and countless aisles of books that put the library back at Gotham to shame.

 

Currently, the books were stacked as high as skyscrapers as they entered the building. The path to get to the middle of the room alone paved out like a labyrinth, with books piled as tall as the Boy Wonder in no real beginning, no end. Everyone had evacuated the building, without a living person in sight.

 

Shelves had been stripped bare, with all of their contents organized neatly on tables. Tall, organized by call number. One table held a cluster of books titled _Airplanes & Aviation_ and the next row over had pieces of literature—all by Charles Dickens.

 

“Ow,” Gar grumbled. “Ow, ow, ow. I’ve never seen so many books in my _life._ ”

 

“Me neither,” Tim muttered. Not strategically placed like this. He walked the steady path lain out for them, inspecting all of the stacks. One would be a stack relating to _Planned Motherhood_ while another would be piled high with Mark Twain. As integral as the library was with its collection of books, he doubted anyone ever took the time to arrange them all in an organized—

 

_WOOSH._

 

“Were those books there before?” Cassie _eep’d_ , hand falling quickly to her lasso. She looked around, eyes wide and jaw tight. She and the rest of their team backed into each other, all looking around. The sound of flipping pages suddenly rang in Tim’s ears. He heard the brusque _patpatpat_ of feet and the sudden gush of wind as it whistled in his ears.

 

“It’s not a ghost.” Robin walked over to a bookshelf that’d yet to be stripped of its belongings. His team looked back, and he could almost hear it click in his heads.

 

“You think it’s Impulse?” Cassie stepped forward behind him.

 

“Has to be. Suddenly the scarab’s picking up on a sixth person in the room. The kid’s moving so fast that we can’t _see_ him.” Jaime scratched his head, then the stack of books nearest to his feet disappeared. He made a disgruntled cry, and they reappeared to the right of him on a table.

 

Gar leapt onto the said table, picking up the first book that said _‘A Biography of Charles Darwin._ ’ “But he can see _us_ , uh. Right?”

 

“When he’s going this fast, we’re like statues to him. But yeah.” Tim frowned, cocking his head in the direction he’d hoped to hear feet. Wherever Bart was, the sound of the speedster’s direction echoed through one ear and disappeared out the other. There was a thud—tripping, maybe?—and a book fell in the Boy Wonder’s line of sight. He picked it up and inspected it half-heartedly. “Bart knows we’re here.”

 

A prickle of fingers gusted against his fingers. The cape around his shoulders flapped from the sudden intrusion, and the Boy Wonder felt the touch of an arm against his own. Before Tim could turn his head back, the book was yanked out of his hands and touch disappeared.

 

“He’s just ignoring us.” Tim turned back to an empty bookshelf and bit the inside of his mouth. Ouch.

 

“Neptune’s Beard!” La’gaan cursed—and no doubt, a stack of books had probably disappeared around him and reappeared somewhere else. The Atlantean scowled angrily, ignoring the quiet snickers Gar conjured and pushed another tower books away from him. “So what on Manta’s head is he _doing_?”

 

The thing Bart did best when he wasn’t on his feet. “He’s—” _WOOSH._ “—reading.” Books landed on the shelf parallel to Tim, sounding like dominos as they were organized perfectly by call number, and alphabetical order depending on the title. Suddenly the rest of the books surrounding them rushed through the air—so fast that they were on a shelf before any of them could blink.

 

“Whoa.”

 

“What the—”

 

“ _AGH_!”

 

Stack by stack, they were thrown onto previously empty shelves—by call number, alphabetized, and in the proper order. Robin hardly caught the blur of a sixth entity before it crossed the room out of sight—opened a door that was obstructed from view, and presumably went up the stairs.

 

Gar shook them out of their stupor. “What the hell just happened?”

 

“Must have gone upstairs to find more.” Robin crossed his arms. “He’s reading every book in the library.”

 

His team cocked their heads in disbelief. The front of Blue’s mask disappeared, revealing Jaime’s face, and even that looked doubtful. “Ese—Bart doesn’t read. He watches cartoons, plays videogames, and as of six days ago, makes origami safaris.”

 

“The Bart that’s spent two years in our present time learning how to relax after preventing the end of the world, maybe.” Robin shook his head and stood closer to his team. “But he had a life before that. One without video games, one without cartoons.”

 

Only this wasn’t either Bart. Not the happy-go-lucky kid the team was used to hanging out with, or the boy with the fear burning in his eyes. Yet Jaime seemed to realize what Tim had been thinking: in some way, Bart’s intention was to drop the act for good.

 

Blue opened his mouth to speak, but never got the chance. Instead, all of their attention drew to Gar as the green teen’s head jerked upward.

 

“Uh. Guys?” Beast Boy’s gaze shot to the entrance. “Suddenly I don’t hear voices screaming in terror about paranormal activity.”

 

Absolute silence. Beforehand there had been mutterings and babbles from terrified people that truly thought there was a ghost in the vicinity.

 

It was unlikely that a crowd in mass hysteria would disappear in the span of—Tim checked the library clock— _fifteen minutes._ His scowl was met with wary looks from all his teammates. Grazing a hand over his bo staff, he jerked his head in the direction of their exit. “Bart’s safe for now. Let’s go.”

 

The parking lot was empty—no persons, no car. Beast Boy morphed into a bloodhound and sniffed at the air. Standing at the entrance of the library, Tim cocked his head to the sky in hopes of finding _something._

“I don’t like this,” Cassie muttered under her breath.

 

“The suit can’t pick anything up.” Jaime frowned, hands curled tensely at his sides.

 

A soft _clank_ tumbled at Robin’s feet from above. He bent down to pick it up—

 

“Robin!”

 

“GET DOWN!”

 

—and never got the chance. Lagoon Boy, Wonder Girl, and Blue Beetle all tackled him to the ground and—

 

_BOOOOOOM_

The _grenade_ exploded.

 

He cried out in pain, and the impact forced him and the rest of his teammates five feet away from their current position. The grip that the trio had on the Boy Wonder failed, hurling them into the air. Robin twisted his body as best he could—to land at a better angle—and fell with his back to the ground. Tim choked on ash as it imploded through their vicinity and recoiled against rubble. Pain registered in his right shoulder—and a groan left his lips.

 

Ow _._

 Swallowing the blood that accumulated in his throat, Tim forced himself to sit up. He faltered, biting back an aching cry. Even his head pounded—throbbing just as agonizingly as his arm.

 

Shit _._

“Boy Wonder.”

 

Robin blinked away the blots of darkness from his vision and looked up—

 

“Looks like you’re my lamb.”

 

Cold metal slapped him hard across the face, sending the teen across the parking lot yet again. A car door caught him at impact, and the back of Tim’s skull hit the window. He fell to concrete, flat on his face and felt the blood as it screamed beneath his flesh. Tim coughed, the taste of dirt and metal centered at the back of his throat and forced himself to look up. _Look **up.**_ “D… _Deathstroke_.”

 

Around him, the rest of his teammates had fallen with either blows to the head or impacts to the ground. _Damn it._

 

Even through pained eyes, Tim could make out the outline of a smirk beneath the man’s mask. Deathstroke even had the nerve to laugh—like a complacent father looking at his son.

 

_No. Bad comparison. **Never** make that comparison again, Drake. _

“Beta to Nightwing,” he muttered roughly into his comm.-link. “We’ve found Deathstroke. I repeat: Deathstroke’s with us.”

 

He got a response almost instantly. _“Nightwing to Beta—state your location.”_

Robin forced himself through the ripping pain. He gripped his bo staff between his fingers and stood upright. His jaw, too, ached as he scowled. Wiping the blood off his forehead, he pointed at the man and curled his finger. “Let’s go.”

 

_“Beta—state your location.”_

The laugh that Deathstroke made next only irked the Boy Wonder. Strapped across the man’s chest were belts of ammunition—all to reload the machine gun in his hand. One, Robin recognized immediately, that had shot Bart in the knee.

 

_“State your location. Robin—”_

 

“You really want to do that?” Deathstroke started for him, so Robin lunged forward. He swiped his staff at the man—dragging his weight and ignoring the pain in his arm. “I’m sure you’re _good_ , kid—” Tim reached to elbow the man in the stomach—then seethed in pain as it impacted the machine gun. This close to the man’s face, he could see Deathstroke’s mouth curl into a stupid grin. “But you’re not _that—”_

Robin landed a hit with the edge of his staff, ramming the rigid metal straight into Deathstroke’s face.

 

The man tapered backward, a disgruntled how leaving his lips. Dropping the breath in his lungs, Tim felt his heart tremor. He stood in the firmest stance he could, hands curled tightly around his bo staff and lips split into the most gruesome, bloodiest grin he could conjure.

 

“You so sure about that?” he mocked, voice stinging.

 

Deathstroke looked back up, free hand clutching tightly where the teen had hit him in the face. Robin’s vision doubled before him, not the slightest idea what the man before him was thinking—all he knew was, Deathstroke was _not_ happy.

 

The mercenary’s feet hammered into the ground. Robin raised his staff to defend himself, and was met with an elbow to the jaw.

 

“ _AGH—”_

“Playtime’s over,” Deathstroke sneered. He plucked the boy from the ground by the metal staff and snapped it in half. Tim gritted his teeth, taking a knee to the stomach and faintly heard a _CRACK_ of his teeth shortly after, when Deathstroke continued with a punch to his face.

 

Robin fell to asphalt, flat on his back, and hit his head beneath him. He choked on blood and squeezed his eyes shut as agonizing pain shout through every inch of him— _rendered him_ from being able to move.

 

“I win.” _Click._

 

He forced himself to open his eyes and looked up to the bleary blob above him.

 

Deathstroke leered sickeningly. “Tell me, Robin—” The teen struggled to push himself off the ground—and was forced back with a hard foot that dug into his chest. _No._ “Is that mask bulletproof?”

 

_BAAAAAM_

The sound deafened Tim’s ears. He suffocated on his last breath, eyes squeezed tightly to avoid the pain—

 

\--that never happened.

 

“What the hell—?”

 

“Isn’t that _overkill_?”

 

Deathstroke’s exclamation registered in the injured teen’s ears and he opened his eyes. He caught the quickest glimpse of a red glove, of fingers curled tightly over the bullet that should have killed him—and wheezed as the assassin stumbled back. Deathstroke searched his surroundings just as Robin did. In one ear, the Boy Wonder heard the heavy pad of footsteps before it echoed out the other.

 

“—I mean, you’re using a Nitro Express Cartridge with a velocity of 2000FPS and a striking energy of _four tons—”_

 

“What is this?!” Deathstroke snapped. Suddenly the excess weapons, utility and ammo belt disappeared from his person—all floating through the air and suddenly thrown far away.

 

“ _Totally_ wrong caliber to go hunting with. I read it in a book.”

 

Tim swallowed hard and clutched his aching shoulder. His gaze darted from side to side, mind numbing from impact-after-impact. But the voice was enough to bring him back to life. _Bart._ “Impulse?”

 

“Nope.” In that instant, the blur of motion stopped—a body putting itself between Tim and the man before him. Energy hissed around them and caused the hair on Tim’s arms to stand erect. The boy before him glowed in his own static, his gold boots blinding in the dust and debris. He was armored in red and yellow—proudly, with the _Flash_ insignia burning brightly at his chest. Bart tossed a look over his shoulder, meeting Tim with eyes that sparked with impish glee beneath a yellow cowl. “ _Kid Flash._ ”

 


	9. Team

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A grin spread across the speedster—Kid Flash’s lips. He pushed their villain aside on the ground and turned around to meet the Boy Wonder’s gaze. “Long time no see.” The look of shock had yet to disappear from the other teen’s face—only making Bart’s heart beat faster. He approached the other teen, a smile broad across his face as he extended a hand. “I just spent a relative year and a half reading all the books in the San Francisco Library. Twenty minutes in real time for you.”

Bart was tingling with excitement.

 

The power bristled along his skin, on the extra layer of his uniform and howled beautifully in his ears. His boots planted firmly to the ground—heavier than his old pair, but somehow more potent. _Definitely_ more potent. He felt the static of his own energy crackle at his feet—for the first time, breaking pace from the path he set out from Happy Harbor what seemed like _eons_ ago. The discharge of his sudden halt had to go somewhere—which brought him here, with every bit of remains in propinquity whirling around him like a cyclone. Even his hair crackled with energy, humming over the new wing-tips of Bart’s uniform.

 

Then there was Deathstroke. Slade Wilson, who Bart immediately disarmed the moment he made contact. In relative moments Bart made sure to remember the stupor that registered across the man’s face when Bart had grabbed the bullet ( _man_ , that was cool) and threw it aside like a pebble.

 

He hurt Tim.

 

 _That_ was not cool.

 

“Do you know how many laws you’ve broken?” Bart started, and he shoved the man back despite the obvious size difference. He kicked Deathstroke harshly in the stomach and lunged over him. “Illegal use of firearms—” Bart elbowed the man in the torso— _solar plexus, bundle of nerves within the center of the abdomen—right below sternum where ribs join abdomen. Impact causes damage to the diaphragm_ —

 

 _“AGH_!”

 

“Destruction of public _property_ —” and rammed a fist into the side of Deathstroke’s head before the previous damage could register. “—and then there’s the _obvious_ —” Bart side swept the man—kicked him harshly in the shin. The ground beneath him shook as the assassun fell to the ground, head first. “Per California Penial Code 11165—picking fights with _minors._ Meaning _us.”_

Thrill trilled in his veins. Bart picked the man up by the front of his disgusting uniform, jaw tightening. Deathstroke groaned, head bobbing back as lifelessly as a doll, and a smirk curled firmly across the speedster’s lips.

 

It disappeared, green eyes narrowing beneath the cowl, and faded into a sneer. “Don’tyoudaretouchRobinagainyou _degeneratereprobate._ ”

 

“ _Impulse._ ” Robin’s voice registered in the brunet’s ears. Gravelly and weak—but definitely Tim. “What…what _happened_ to you?”

 

A grin spread across the speedster— _Kid Flash’s_ lips. He pushed their villain aside on the ground and turned around to meet the Boy Wonder’s gaze. “Long time no see.” The look of shock had yet to disappear from the other teen’s face—only making Bart’s heart beat faster. He approached the other teen, a smile broad across his face as he extended a hand. “I just spent a relative year and a half reading all the books in the San Francisco Library. Twenty minutes in real time for you.”

 

The line of bruises down Robin’s face caught his attention immediately. Part of Tim’s mouth was swollen, clearly from a combat injury, and blood caked his forehead. When the Boy Wonder reached out to meet Kid Flash’s hand, his body vacillated—one shoulder more crooked than the other.

 

Bart’s smile faded away in concern. He reached over with both hands to help the other teen stand to his feet, careful not to press against obvious wounds and injury. “Tim, you’re hurt.”

 

To his surprise, the taller teen simply shook his head. He bowed, gaze glued to the ground and clearly not of his own desire, and shivered. Despite Bart’s immediate suggestion to get Tim medical help, he was turned down. “Why?”

 

“I was practicing.” Rocking on his heels, Bart pressed as much of Robin’s body weight as he could against his own and bit back a grimace. “How to…think.” Impulsive idiot. That was how people viewed him—how they looked at him since his first outing with Deathstroke.

 

To them, Bart thrived on his instincts and forgot about thinking. Before this, he tried _not_ to think—it interfered with being nuts. What he realized after storming off from their new ops-center was that if he wanted to redeem himself as a speedster and for his _family_ , then he would need to learn how to run at the same pace as everyone else in the era. To know what was going on, why it was happening, and what exactly made this decade _tick._ What better way than to read all the books up until publication in 2018?

 

Their victory only lasted seconds.

 

Before Bart had the chance to explain himself and the sudden change in uniform, Deathstroke snapped back to life. The speedster’s breath hitched. He quickly set Robin aside despite protest and put himself between the pair without a formal order.

 

Deathstroke stretched, standing taller than he had before. “Nice try.”

 

“Rematch?” Bart mused. “Because I can deal with kicking your butt for the next eternity. Yeah— _I like that thought a lot._ ” There were sixteen vital pressure points that he remembered vividly. If he could just get to them—then this fight would be over in no time.

 

He reached out to punch Deathstroke, just like he’d done last time. The man quickly sidestepped, his quiet chuckle tingling at Bart’s ears, and grabbed him roughly by the arm.

 

_Agh._

“You’re fast,” Deathstroke mused. “So am I.” The grip he had on Bart’s wrist tightened, and the speedster stumbled on his own feet, the soles of his shoes skidding at the ground. _Ow. Owowow._ Suddenly, Deathstroke’s fingers curled at his side—at a hidden compartment, and pulled out a knife.

 

“Let—me— _go!_ ”

 

“Gladly.” Deathstroke lifted his hand and stabbed the knife into Bart’s stomach—

 

“ _Ah—_ ”—and the speedster fell to the ground and heard the loud crack in his ribs. Pain hit him hard and he winced in agony, hands fisting into his uniform.

 

Worst of all, Deathstroke wasn’t even _looking_ at him anymore. “You hear that, Robin? The sound of this boy’s _ribs_ cracking. What makes you think you stand a chance against me, when even the _senior_ members of your Junior Justice League can’t handle my abilities?”

 

From the corner of his eye, Bart saw Robin stagger backward. Something else was thrown through the air—Robin’s _R-_ shuriken, which usually meant that they were getting desperate. Great.

 

Still, Deathstroke fell backward and through blurry eyes, the speedster saw their opponent clutch his good eye in pain.

 

“Let’s see how you fight blind,” Robin said hoarsely. He wasn’t in good shape—it didn’t take a genius to realize how battered their fearless leader had gotten while going toe-to-toe with this man. He needed to get out of danger— _now._

Suddenly, a geyser of water gushed from a far end of the lot, no doubt from the library water fountain. _Lagoon Boy._ Deathstroke stumbled once more, subdued without his immediate vision. A thin golden line tied around the man, and a high cry met Bart’s ears. _Wonder Girl._

The team was waking up. Good.

 

She tightened the grip of her rope around Wilson and flung the man through the sky with a grunt. Deathstroke flew across the sky, at least the length of a football field— _approximately 100 yards long and 160 feet wide; 91.44 meters—_ and landed in a fence of telephone wires. In a matter of seconds the man was immobilized.

 

Sucking in a breath, Bart rocked onto his stomach. He gagged, hand clutching his insides where—yup, there had to be a broken rib.

 

Okay.

 

“No more broken body parts, Allen,” he whispered to himself. Bart trembled, curling one hand into a fist and pressing the palm of his other hand against it. He shut his eyes, resting both hands on the injury and choked on a sob before he could let the pain hurt him. If he didn’t do this, then the injury would heal improperly—and, well. A fake kneecap was enough artificial body parts he needed. He was going to heal this time—all on his own, and something he could control. “It’s as easy as reading a book.”

 

Before the new tissues inside his body could accumulate, Bart shoved his hand firmly in his ribcage and felt the bones relocate beneath his torso.

 

And instantly, it started healing. _Crash_. He smeared the blood from the cut onto his pants leg and dashed into the line of fire.

 

When he arrived at the scene of the crime, every one of his teammates had Deathstroke surrounded. Dirt caked Gar’s hair, with his wrist swollen while blood dried in Cassie’s hair—probably from a blow to the head. La’gaan and Jaime, too, looked disgruntled from the apparent bomb that Bart had heard earlier, but no doubt Tim looked worse off.

 

“Is he dead?” was the general question.

 

“Who knows.” Bart walked up to his friends, taking heavy footsteps across the parking lot. Immediately his friends turned around, save Tim, who look stuck hunched over to inspect the damage. They took a look at him, and the speedster smirked crisply at their shock. “ _Man_ , I had to snap my own rib back into place. Read a book on resetting bones, so—?”

 

“ _Impulse_?” Jaime stepped forward, his eyes wide beneath the scarab’s mask.

 

“Kid Flash. Deathstroke unconscious? Because I could stand to hit him a few hundred more times.” The speedster shook his head and placed his hands on his hips. “ _Qué tal?_ ”

 

No change in their demeanor. They all looked to him, jaw dropped in some form or another. Even La’gaan or Gar—two people who knew how to poke fun at odd situations were at a loss of what to say. Not that Bart minded so _much—_ even he had looked in the mirror when he first put the suit on. He’d never seen so much yellow in his _life_ , and yet somehow—somehow it fit fine.

 

It was perfect.

 

“Something isn’t right,” Robin called, breaking all of them out of their silence.

 

Cassie’s mouth closed together and she relaxed, taking in the sight of their resident speedster more carefully. “What happened to you?”

 

“Later.” Fastest Teen Alive—but right now watching Tim, Bart decided there were more important things than the sudden change in identity ten minutes ago. He walked past the team, to Tim—who was awkwardly bent over inspecting their fallen super-baddy. Frowning, Bart reached over to pad his fingers across the trail of black marks against Robin’s face and jumped when the boy winced. “Let me take you to a hospital.”

 

“I’m fine,” Robin muttered, voice slurring as he did so.

 

“ _No_ , you’re no—”

 

“What’s wrong, Robin?” Wonder Girl asked. She looked over their shoulders to get a better look at Slade Wilson, so Bart decided he would do the same. He was getting tired of being caught off guard because of this annoying man.

 

Deathstroke’s mask was tattered, most likely ripped to pieces from where Robin’s R-shuriken had impacted him through the eye. Soot marks covered his suit from when he’d been thrown into the telephone wires—probably electrocuted to a crisp. He was bound tightly in Wonder Girl’s lasso—which, in Bart’s experience, was tougher than diamonds. So—really, Bart didn’t see what the problem was. “We all got together and defeated the big super boss—you know, like the hand in Super Smash Bros. I’d say that was a good—”

 

Violent eyes snapped open and looked straight at the speedster.

 

—“match—?”

 

 _“Let’s see how **you** fit._ ”

 

“Bart!”

 

What the—Bart choked on a breath and fell backward. A gush of air slammed him into the ground, and something pressed against him forcefully like a thousand balloons rammed into his flesh. He blinked wildly, suddenly losing the ability to take in air altogether. His _brain_ felt crushed under the circumstances and the first thing he did—

 

—was punch Blue Beetle hard in the face.

 

“ _The hell_ —?” Bart cried out, head darting side-to-side. Not of his own doing, either. He felt his feet move out of his own consent and it before it registered in Jaime’s mind that the speedster had just _hit_ him, red gloves grabbed the hero again by the arm. Bart’s body spun around, taking the other teen with him into a cyclone. Outside the hysteria in his own mind, he heard his teammate’s cry of protest. “Sorry—hermano—can’t control—my _body!_ ”

 

He released Blue Beetle into the air, sending his teammate flying into the streets of San Francisco.

 

Bart’s head jerked around, vision registering all of his teammates. Wonder Girl had reassembled her lasso, all of them staring at him combatively. Something was _possessing him._ “Guys,” he shouted—his mouth, the _only_ thing he seemed to be in control of, “I’mnotincontrol! Something’sgotme—!”

 

His body legs through the line of people, immediately taking Beast Boy out with an elbow to the neck. Lagoon Boy lunged forward, puffing out to punch the speedster in the face. “You don’t look so _good_ , Chum—”

 

“Nokidding.” Jeez—one would think the universe would go right for at least a _second._ Bart could _do_ seconds. His body ducked when La’gaan aimed for his face, and kicked the Atlantean to the ground before L.B.’s reaction time could kick in. One of his hands reached out, clutched La’gaan by the leg, and his body started running. No—oh, nononono—“Sorryman—think I’m _moded_ right now!”

 

Through the distance, he could hear Robin’s cry of, _“RESTRAIN HIM!”_

Which, yes—would be a good idea right now. Bart demanded for his body to stop, but it responded with a tightness in his stomach and forced him to run the streets of San Francisco faster. Through the corner of his eye, he saw a green cheetah stalk after him. His body whirled around, gaze meeting Beast Boy’s vicious growl.

 

His fingers unclenched, causing Lagoon Boy to fall backward and strike down their other green companion. Bart’s body skidded to a halt— _shit, shit, shit_ —and he looked around violently.

 

Gold rope looped around him, tightening around Bart’s arms from above. Cassie descended from the sky in alarm, her hands tied tightly in her lasso and eyes wide with shock. _“Bart!_ What has gotten _into_ you?”

 

“Can’t—control it,” Bart gritted his teeth. Green eyes looked to the blue ones of the person that had bounded him—

 

 _“ **CONTACT.”**_ The voice burned as badly as the shot to his knee.

Cassie yelped and fell backwards just as Bart had done. For a brief moment, the brunet caught sight of what leaped out of him and into the blonde—a dark blue _humanoid_ specter—who phased right into their female teammate. Bart tumbled backward, rolling into the lasso as he did so and hurling himself onto the street. He could hear the faintest cries of civilians as they spotted the damage being done and quickly vibrated out of his binding and stood to his feet.

 

Yards away from him was Cassie—body tense and mouth tightened into a fearful scowl. Her eyes glowed and she looked straight back—hands curled into fists.

 

Uh-oh. “Now, uh— _W.G._ , we all know that you’re team’s beautiful gorgeous badass, so…”

 

“Can’t… _control_ …” Wonder Girl shot through the air and slammed her fist into the brunet’s face. Her face was wild with panic, but body ready for a battle. Punch in the face—not that bad. Punch in the face by a _girl with super strength_? Bart fell backward and lost his footing. Before he could recover, a hand reached out, clawed into the emblem on his chest and raised him high off the ground.

 

Crap.

 

Cassie gasped, expression registering in alarm. “Bart! I can’t—”

 

“Yeah—knowthatfeeling.” Bart wriggled, jerking his legs as best he could. Apparently, a speedster without traction beneath him—well, wasn’t really a speedster. “Y’know, I’d _totally_ love you if you let me on the ground.”

 

_CLINK._

 

A birdarang shot through the sky and landed at their feet before exploding into polyurethane foam around Wonder Girl’s ankle. She shrieked, body reacting more violently to the sudden intrusion. Bart was tossed through the air and slammed his head into a fire hydrant. Wonder Girl bobbed, free leg attempting to shoot the rest of her into the sky.

 

When Bart came to, head pounding, Lagoon Boy, Beast Boy, Blue Beetle and Robin—carried over carefully by Jaime—met him, feet away from their struggling teammate.

 

She cried and frustration and twitched in her circumstance. “I can—hear his thoughts. He wants us to— _stop_.”

 

“It’s a specter,” Bart informed them as the group closed in on him cautiously. “I don’t know _what_ , but when Wonder Girl caught me, it made me _look_ at her and this blue thing came out.”

 

“So what? You’re good and she’s evil now?” La’gaan scratched his head in amazement. “I don’t know how I feel about hitting a girl.”

 

No one missed Cassie’s aggravated glare. Gar smirked, hands placed on his hips. “Don’t think you’d be able to land a hit on her anyway, L.G.”

 

At that moment Cassie let out a frustrated cry. She broke out of her hold, rocketed into the air, and looked down at them from the sky. Seconds later, she plummeted toward all five boys. They all scattered in different directions—Blue Beetle darting left, Lagoon Boy to the right. Bart scooped up Robin despite immediate protest and circled the scene. Beast Boy wasn’t as lucky. A frigid chill passed through Bart’s bloodstream and he shivered—faster than even him, the blue being emerged from their girl into the green teen.

 

**_“CONTACT.”_ **

****

A beat later, Beast Boy’s body was morphed into a Siberian Tiger and lunged for Wonder Girl.

 

She held up a cuff for him to gnaw on and rolled across the ground.

 

“It’s just _body-jumping_.” Bart’s realization caused him to skid to a halt with Robin still tucked safely in his arms. He set the teen down when the Boy Wonder wrestled out of his grip and bit back a frown. Instead, his eyes caught sight of Lagoon Boy puffing out before punching tiger-Gar off their teammate. Gar growled—but whether it was of protest or, _grr-I’m-going-to-eat-you_ , Bart didn’t think to pick apart. Sure—How-To guides for building your own spaceship, he had the call number handy in his head. _Tiger Whispering_ , not as much. “What do you think its goal is?”

 

Tim’s face twisted gruesomely at his side. “Knock us out one-by-one by taking over one of our comrades? Its only real ability seems that it needs a body. _Ghost_ wasn’t as farfetched as we all thought earlier.”

 

“Uh, sure.” Bart allowed himself a hitch in time—to look how pale Robin had gotten from his showdown with Deathstroke earlier, with none of the swelling having gone down. At this point, Robin looked no better than one of Aunt Dawn’s Princess Ariel doll with the head popped off. He let out a breath, turning his footing just slightly into the other teen and squeezed Robin’s bicep securely. “I should really take you to the hospital.”

 

Robin shook his head profusely, eyes not leaving the scene. Blue Beetle had intervened, sonic cannon pointed at elephant-Gar—hopefully at the lowest setting. “Don’t let your concern outweigh your sense of duty. Whoever this is—whatever it is, we’ve got to take it down.”

 

“Even if you’re _hurt_? Rob, I can’t let you fight.”

 

“Just because I took a hit doesn’t mean that I can’t _fight_ , Bart. You of all people should know that.” For a moment, Robin pulled himself out of their current time. He turned his head just slightly, domino mask catching Bart’s eyes beneath the yellow and mouth tight. “I should have known that about you.”

 

Oh. Bart’s eyes widened. Whatever response he had at the tip of his tongue dissolved into speechlessness. He caught his breath—some sort of, ill-timed relief thrumming in his chest from the way Tim looked at him—and couldn’t help but grin. Then, he made sure Robin was standing straight up and prepared himself to mediate. “So how are we going to bring him down?”

 

He could imagine that nearly devilish gleam beneath the mask, in ingenious blue eyes. Even battered, bruised, and probably numb in every part of him, Robin looked handsome as ever as his lips curled into a needed smirk. “As a team.”

 

The Boy Wonder pulled up a blueprint on his holocomp and moved for Bart to inspect it.

 

“How fast can you read th—”

 

“Done.”

 

“And to make it—?”

 

 _Zip!_ “Also done.” Bart tossed the newly-made device into his leader’s hands and looked to him curiously. “What’s the plan?”

 

A quick look of approval overtook Robin’s face—something Bart decided with his photographic memory, he was going to relish for the rest of his life. Then, Robin cocked his head back to their dire situation. “Like I said—his only _real_ ability seems to be jumping from person to person. He can’t be tangible—he needs a host.”

 

Next, he told Bart the plan.

 

“Got it.” The brunet nodded and stood higher on his feet.

 

“Ready?” Another smirk curled across Tim’s face—the difference being, it wasn’t directed toward their current situation. He looked Bart gravely in the eye, goading. “Kid Flash?”

 

Bart was _so_ going to take this guy out for smoothies after all of this was done. He matched the taller teen’s demeanor—then dashed off straight into the fire, crashing into Beast Boy the elephant. Grabbing their shrieking teammate by the tusks, he vibrated his hands to freak the elephant out.

 

 **NEW!** (Kid) Flash Fact: even when Gar wasn’t totally possessed by a freaky evil ghost, he _hated_ being at the other end of Bart’s vibrating. Kid Flash tightened his hold, preparing himself as the wild animal threw its head into the air and roared in protest.

 

“Bart—?” Jaime called.

 

Kid Flash looked over his shoulder—wowBlueBeetlelookeddifferentupsidedownanddangling—wait, that was him—and shimmied over elephant-Gar. “Robin’sgotaplan! Go!”

 

Fortunately his teammates needn’t be told twice. They looked to each other, then dashed off to their leader. Bart made out Tim’s form—tall, and to some degree rested, being outside of the action. The holocomp came to view as their three other teammates landed at their leader’s side for a briefing.

 

Elephant-Gar blared at Bart, tossed the speedster over his head and onto his back. Once Bart landed, Gar morphed into a Pteradactyl— _Class: Reptilia, Order: Pterosauria, Suborder: Pterodactyloidea, Family: Pterodactylidae, Genus: Pterodactylus; Adult wingspan up to 1.5 meters aka 5 feet, note to self: not usually green_ —and took off into the air with a shriek.

 

“Whoa—always wanted to know what it would be like up in the air.” Lunging forward, Bart’s hands reached for Gar’s beak to snap shut tightly. Displeased, Beast Boy’s body convulsed and tilted in order to knock the speedster off. Allens were known for two things: super speed and good-grippy hands. “Ah!”

 

Pteradactyl-Gar spiraled and nosedived, fifty feet above the ground with an earsplitting screech, causing Kid Flash to lose his footing.

 

And his grip. “Whoa!”

 

Beast Boy managed to shake him off before piercing through the sky again, and left Bart freefalling to the ground—

 

“Gotcha.” Blue Beetle grabbed him by the arm and pulled him into the air and into the elder teen’s grasp.

 

A sigh of relief left Kid Flash’s lips. “ _Gracias_ , _hermano._ ”

 

“Hmm.” Thoughtful eyebrow. “Yellow looks good on you, ese.”

 

“You think?” Grin.

 

In the other situation, Lagoon Boy had leapt onto a dumpster. He jumped into the air and tackled Ptera-Gar to the ground. Ptera-Gar hissed and morphed into a snake before slithering out of the Atlantean’s grasp.

 

Snake-Gar looked up and saw Deathstroke.

 

Just as Robin had predicted, whatever was in control of Beast Boy didn’t like that interference. Beast Boy morphed into a furry green husky and rumbled before going after the man that started the whole mess. As Bart and Jaime landed on ground level, they took in the sight of not-Gar chasing after the assassin. The green teen pounced, landing on top of the large man as a large grizzly bear, snarling.

 

**_“CONTACT.”_ **

 

WHACK

 

Before Wilson had the chance to stand to his feet again, Robin kicked the fallen man in the head. There was a grunt—then their fearless leader strapped Bart’s newly-made inhibitor collar around Deathstroke’s neck.

 

_Victory._

 

The man lay there limp, collar choking him tightly and Cassie’s lasso—the rope that had been dragging the unconscious man across the street like a puppet—wrapped tightly around him. This time, for security measure. La’gaan tied a strip of cloth around the man’s eyes.

 

 _Crash._ Grinning, Bart helped the disoriented Gar to his feet and turned his head to their team leader. _“Nice_.”

 

“I’ll say,” Cassie remarked. She smiled and nudged Robin in the arm. “Great going.”

 

“Yeah.” And—the defeat was so amazing even _Tim_ smiled in relief. “Nice work.”

 

**xxx**

It took ten minutes before Alpha and Gamma was able to meet up with them. Apparently Robin had forgotten to relay back to Nightwing their current whereabouts after finding Deathstroke—which left both extra teams wandering around the San Francisco area before they all met. Beta spent the remainder of the time waiting by helping civilians back into their houses and cleaning up everything they’d knocked over during the fight.

 

As the ambulance showed up and police arrived to inspect the situation, Bart and the rest of the team stood around. Robin explained the situation and method of handling the problem to their head honcho. The best they could theorize, the being that was jumping from person-to-person was a meta-human. He possessed Deathstroke to draw attention to himself—slaughtering innocent people, and for some reason, had some kind of personal attachment to the unconscious man. Using Wonder Girl’s lasso, they dragged Deathstroke across the sidewalk in a way that made him seem conscious after anticipating Gar would turn into a flying-creature, and tricked the specter into thinking Deathstroke was out and about.

 

Then the specter grabbed his new host (Deathy over there), and they’d strap the inhibiter collar over Deathstroke’s neck—one that Tim fortunately had a blueprint for hidden in his files.

 

After Robin finished his story, Nightwing frowned. The old acrobat said one plain word that rubbed them all the wrong way— _“Jericho.”_

_Noun_. _A town in the West Bank near the North end of the Dead See, 251 meters (825 feet) below sea level: on the site of an ancient city, the first place to be taken by the Israelites under Joshua after entering the Promised Land in the 14 th Century BC. _ 

 

 Bart had a feeling that wasn’t what Nightwing meant. Still, the team of senior members all shared looks and were apparently against explaining what the _real_ definition was. Behind him, Gar quietly snorted and nudged Jaime in the arm. “Withholding information from us,” Beast Boy mused under his breath, “Now who’s surprised there?”

 

Once Nightwing, Superboy, Miss Martian—and, well, the rest of the team had taken a good look at Bart, he couldn’t help a nervous smile. Through the Alpha bunch, his cousin, for some reason—was missing from the team.

 

Well, not for long.

 

Bart had taken a step forward to lace his hand’s into Tim’s, who was trying hard not to wheeze in front of the first Robin. Despite the quiet protest the brunet knew was coming, Bart tugged lightly on Robin’s hand and pressed close to him. “We should go back to the Tower and get these guys treated. Right—?”

 

 _WOOSH!_ “Letmeathim. He’s dead.” Like Bart said: Wally was never away too long. Just slow and late here and there. The brunet blinked half a dozen times, watching as shoulders of the older team members were gently disconnected. Flash ranted before he came into full view for Bart. “ _Kid._ I have half the mind to slap you right—”

 

Flash and Kid Flash stood parallel to one another—both in front of their crowd of friends, both locked in looks of surprise.

 

“—now,” Wally finished dumbly, and left it at that.

 

The younger speedster did what he was good at with people: wave. “Hey.”

 

His cousin’s mouth twitched in effort to say something—but, well. His lack of a proper reaction had been one of the affectionate things Bart liked most about Wally. It was how they bonded. Behind him he could hear his teammates snicker—even Cassie, and even Tim managed to quirk a smirk.

 

Nightwing saved him before Flash could have a scarier reaction. He reached over, placed a hand on Bart’s shoulder, and shared a smile akin to his brother’s. “You did good tonight, Bart. And you’re right. Let’s get back to the Tower and everyone treated—then we can have a formal debriefing.”

 

Bart grinned.

 

Crash.

 

**xxx**

 

If the night could get any better, he managed to avoid Wally’s wrath for another hour. All of them had been checked on—Tim dislocated his shoulder during battle and fractured his jaw. He was to wear a sling until further noticed. Bart got off better, with a Woodstock band-aid that matched his uniform to go over the (healed) cut where Deathstroke had swiped him. Artemis and Black Canary weren’t too happy at the fact he cheated his physical therapy—first thing in the morning, Bart was to report to the Tower with the other Flashes to learn his capacities now that he had the fake kneecap. Bart assured them though—he could run a triathlon.

 

After their checkups, Beta (plus Bart) gave a formal report of their encounter to the elder members. Again, a mutter of the name _Jericho_ , and no one was willing to give an explanation. Another snide remark passed behind Bart—and they promised to fill him in about it later.

 

And before Wally could drive Bart up the wall with questions, Tim pulled the younger speedster away with his good hand, out of the tower, and into the neighboring forest away from their base. Neither one let go, perfectly content now that they were alone.

 

Fireflies crowded them, light illuminating the path they took as they slowly inched away from the tower. At one point, Bart picked up a long stick and dragged it across the ground. Their silence was peaceful—warm. It was a pace that he didn’t mind going at.

 

When his stick snapped in half, Bart tossed it aside with quiet laughter. He dragged Tim with him peacefully, taking steps ahead in the clear pathway until he felt the full extension of their arms. At that point, both boys stopped. A smile crossed the brunet’s lips. When he looked up, Tim smiled too.

 

“How’s your jaw feel?” Bart reached forward, voice tepid, and padded his fingers on the underside of the other teen’s mouth.

 

“S’fine,” Tim murmured. He untangled their hands, placing a black glove over red. “So—Kid Flash. What’s with the new look? You…got _shot_ , stormed off today, and read books. But that wouldn’t automatically make me Nightwing.”

 

“Hope not.” Nightwing already _had_ a speedster. One that Bart assumed was being distracted at this very moment so Tim and he could talk. So, yeah—Dick _could_ be cool sometimes. Tim arched a visible eyebrow beneath his mask, the smile across his face placid. All Bart could do was titter again. “It doesn’t make you _Batman_ , either. You don’t want to be. But…”

 

“But?”

 

“But one day, I _am_ going to be the Flash. I _want_ to be the Flash.” Backing up, the low light emitted by the surrounding fireflies glowed around him. The lightning bolt on his chest gleamed proudly, and Bart felt the satisfaction _finally_ swell in his chest. “Like Grandpa Barry was. And Jay. And Wally. I’ve just been so caught up with myself after the Reach that I didn’t realize it.”

 

When Tim didn’t respond, Bart continued.

 

He took in a breath, closing the distance between them so that they stood toe-to-toe. “I’m not going to look at my past to find answers for the future. From now on I’m going to live my life—save people, do good things and be a hero. Not just a kid that came to the past on impulse.”

 

Green eyes looked up warily, catching his best friend’s eyes as he did so. Reaching out, Bart curled his fingers around Tim’s hand once more and squeezed it tightly between his palms.

 

“I can’t stop being a hero after my—our big screw up with Deathstroke. Or stop after taking the next hit. Frankly, I should probably be mad at you for suggesting I do that in the first place. But I’m not.” Bart rocked against his heels gently, never breaking eye contact or touch.  Green orbs glimmered. He brought Tim’s hand up to his mouth and pressed his lips softly against the gloved knuckles. “I can promise you though, that for every super-baddy or evil alien or even some weird _glob_ monster that we have to face—that I’m going to be there. Right next to you, and following every order that you give out. You know—unless you become an evil villain that takes over the world.”

 

The edge of Bart’s lips twitched mischievously, gaze unwavering.

 

“Then I’d probably be the one to slap you out of commission. I think that’s fair after you laser beam me, though.” Bart nodded, confirming it in his own head. “Oh yeah—definitely fair.”

 

To his delight, Tim broke into a smile, head bowing over softly for a breathy laugh. He squeezed Bart’s hand tightly and wrapped it carefully around his shoulder. They stood pressed against each other. A shudder passed through Bart’s spine, and he felt a breath against his nose. “I’m okay with that.”

 

“Me too.” Bart stood to the tip of his toes and looped both his arms securely around Tim’s neck. His lips stretched into an adoring grin. “So we can be together now, right?”

 

“Yeah.” Suddenly, Tim reached up with his free hand and pressed the side of his mask. The white opaque lenses disappeared, revealing two, perfect sapphire blue eyes with the white specks at his irises. Oh. Oh _cool._

 

Blinking blithely, Bart reached over to his new boyfriend’s mask and pressed in the same position Tim had done. _On. Off. On. Off. On. Off—_

“Bart,” the tall teen raised his voice, though the exasperation was missing, replaced by amusement. “You’re going to break it.”

 

“Oh—sorry.” Even though he totally was not. That was going to come in handy in the future. He grinned giddily as Tim chuckled under his breath.

 

The Boy Wonder reached over, placing his hand firmly on the side of the speedster’s face and thumbed the flesh right beneath Bart’s ear. A small smile spread across his lips, eyes (Bart could see his _eyes_ ) glittering with absolute kindness. He leaned his face in, long lashes fluttering closed—

 

“Wait—” Bart ducked back, head raised suspiciously. “Just so we’re clear—you’re kissing me now, right? Because if you’re going to kiss me, I want to make sure I don’t do something stupid like last time and— _mmphh_.”

 

—and kissed his speeder. Lips pressed together, the ugly scent of dry blood and tattered uniforms saturated as they stood together. Tim’s hand cupped the speedster’s face tightly and, sighing pleasantly, Bart kissed back with just as much force. He rocked on his feet, falling into Robin happily and refusing to let go until they were breathless.

 

“Clear enough?” Tim mused, thumb pressed against the speedster’s chin.

 

“Yeah.” Bart’s face flushed and his eyes narrowed goofily. “Very clear.”


	10. Legacy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Kid.” Wally’s tone was almost inaudible. “You wanna be my Kid?”

 

It was five in the morning when Bart finally made it back to Central City. The Tower had emptied out, younger members instructed to go back home and rest for the night. Tim promised to text him the first chance he got, but Bart insisted the other teen take the chance to sleep. They were finally off duty, which meant that it was a free-for-all on doting.

 

Now that _you’re_ the injured one, Bart explained, a mirthful and mischievous look across his face, _I_ get to annoy _you_ about your health.

 

Tim smiled, the weariness finally showing on his face. He’d allowed Kid Flash to carry him all the way back to Gotham City and gave him a sweet goodnight kiss before Bart ran back to home.

 

(Secretly—Bart just didn’t want to rag on the fact texting was so _slow._ No one seemed to understand that.)

 

He used the front door when he got back to the house, accustomed to the affectionate creak the door had after the Garricks had lived there for nearly sixty years. What he didn’t expect was for his entire family to be waiting for him in the living room.

 

“ _Bart_?”

 

Huh. Looking up, Bart met the awkward and speechless looks of his entire family. Jay and Joan, Grandma and Grandpa, Uncle Rudy and Aunt Mary—and Wally, who just like Bart was still in uniform—cowl pushed back so the brunet could get a clearer look at the redhead’s reaction. His cousin’s eyebrows were upturned, a look of confusion stretched across his face, laced with the per-usual irritation and some strange sort of emotional constipation.

 

Unsure of how to approach the rest of the situation, Bart shrugged, waved, and pushed the yellow cowl off his head. It took him by surprise at first, forgetting his eyes weren’t covered with the visor like with the Impulse uniform. After that, Bart walked across the room with a penchant smile. “So, I got a boyfriend! Oh, and I’m walking again.”

 

“Where’s your leg brace?” Grandpa Barry asked, voice distant.

 

Actually—hmm. Bart scratched his head and recalled the event. “Somewhere in a nice flowery field right outside of Gotham City?” Dumped right next to the R-Cycle.

 

“And…?” Grandpa gestured to the brunet’s ensemble, clearly sporting the same look as his nephew.

 

“I’m Kid Flash now,” Bart confirmed. He puffed out his chest, a pleasant grin coming to his lips. Finally, Wally’s brain managed to reassemble itself, with a strange noise from the back of his throat as the man reanimated, reaching to rub his temples.

 

“So, you had a bad date tonight. Then you came to my place sulking to Dick and me. Then got into a fight with Robin _again—”_

“We’re not fighting,” the teen interrupted, “we’re dating now.”

 

“—and then showed up during the mission you were _not_ authorized for,” Wally finished, voice straining. “As Kid Flash.”

 

Well—that was right for the most part. Other than the part Wally ignored about Bart no longer being single—but he decided he could explain all about that later. So, the youngest speedster nodded, arms crossed together and expression sobering. He shrugged jerkily like he’d been doing so many times when he was at a loss—but this time, it was a good thing. The edge of his lips curled into a bigger smileand he looked his cousin in the eye. “I found a new track.”

 

The words caught his cousin’s attention immediately, no doubt throwing the man back into the hospital room the day after Bart had been shot in the leg when he’d first uttered those words. Wally’s body relaxed, but his eyes widened, glazing over with the proper acknowledgement.

 

Once that happened, Bart let go of the breath he didn’t realize he was holding. He went through a thorough progression of the night (or tried to. When he started describing the exact color of Dawn’s puke when she spit up on Tim, Wally hit him in the shoulder like it was a fast forward button) up until the point he’d finally put on the suit to help out his family. For the most part, they’d all been silent, with Barry and Jay’s expression changing every once in a while.

 

“I read the books because that’s what I did in my past before I became Impulse,” Bart explained. He tapped his head, finally knowing the term for it. “And I could remember everything because of my eidetic memory. Everything that I’ve read up until the publication of this year is stored in my brain. I can… _think._ In this present time. In this decade.”

 

“And?” Wally frowned.

 

“I want to be your partner. Your Kid Flash.” Looking up, the younger speedster met gazes with his older cousin. His lips tore into a broad smile and he raised his head to be the same height as his cousin. Suddenly Wally’s jaw slackened, eyes widening in surprise of the confession. Grandpa Barry and Jay, too—but not out of distaste. “You were Grandpa’s Kid Flash when you were my age—younger, even. One day I’m going to be a part of that legacy like _you_ are. So. You inherited the title. And I’m inheriting this one. Flash needs a Kid Flash. Right?”

 

By this point, Wally’s face softened, less annoyed of seeing Bart dressed up in a uniform that obviously used to belong to him, and more…flattered. His eyebrows furrowed together, lips held in a straight-line. Green eyes of one speedster looked into hopeful eyes of another.

 

“Well, Wally,” Grandpa cut in, an vague smile spread across his lips. “What do you think?”

 

“Kid.” Wally’s tone was almost inaudible. “You wanna be my Kid?”

 

Bart jerked pointedly and rolled on the balls of his heels. “I’m keeping the uniform even if you say ‘no.’”

 

“My god—you are such a _brat._ ” Instantly Wally did the strangest thing, slinging an arm roughly around Bart’s shoulders and pulling him close for a noogie.

 

“Hey—ow! No fair! You tricked me!”

 

His only response was a laugh—maybe a cackle, because there were times where his cousin _could_ be sinister. Wally threw his head back with a chuckle, tightening his grip around Bart’s neck and sported a maniacal grin. Mimicking the actions, Bart chortled as the rest of his family shared smiles of approval.

 

“I’m going to be strict with you,” his new partner/old kinda-mentor declared. “Gonna yell at you when you drive me crazy.”

 

“You already do that,” Bart pointed out. He rolled his eyes.

 

“Yeah.” Still, Wally grinned, swinging Bart around like he was a little kid—almost in a _hug_ and smirked. “Congrats on the promotion, Kid. But I vote you’re still dead for everything else you did tonight.”

 

**xxx**

**EPILOGUE**

_One Month Later_

“ _What_? You painted over my Cosmo!”

 

“ _Cosmo_ isn’t an operative of Young Justice, you idiot— _Kid_ Idiot. Wow. I see why you liked saying that so much when we were kids.”

 

Rolling his eyes, Bart exchanged a smile with his boyfriend who, too, watched as Wally made quips with Dick and Artemis. Artemis punched her ex-boyfriend in the arm before muttering something under her breath. All out of affection, of course. _Maybe._ Hard to tell. They had a lot of scary blonde ladies that operated with the team nowadays.

 

Construction for the Tower was near completion. Walls had finally been lain down along with massive mirrors that let the sun flutter through every story. Each floor was intrinsically designed, and just last week, the senior members opted for a U-shaped couch for their home theatre room. Members who’d been put in temporary rooms now had a permanent place to stay.

 

Plus—a tower would definitely be easier to rebuild instead of an entire mountain.

 

“Were they goofy back when you met them?” he heard Cassie ask Gar.

 

A look of amusement crossed Gar’s face and they—Jaime, La’gaan, Cassie, Gar, Tim, and he—looked to the six founding members of Young Justice and then some. Artemis, Flash, Nightwing, Manta, Superboy, and Miss Martian. The latter group distracted themselves in their own conversation, which involved a giggle from Miss Martian, lots of hand gestures from Flash, and a lot of eye-rolling from everyone else.

 

“Goofier,” Gar confirmed. He crossed his arms with a smirk. “Wally had more freckles.”

 

Of course. Bart snickered.

 

“You ever find a suitable team name for us?” Tim mused, joining into the conversation. Bart leaned into the teen’s weight, pressing up against the Boy Wonder’s side ever-so casually liked it happened all the time when they were at the base. Tim didn’t shoo him away.

 

A smile curled at Cassie’s lips and she rubbed her chin. “Titans.”

 

“Titans?” Jaime scratched his head. “Like. Greek gods?”

 

“Titans. A Greek mythological primeval race of powerful deities, descendents of Gaia, the mother Earth and Uranus—heaven. Eventually overthrown by a race of younger deities called the Olympians.” Bart rubbed his chin thoughtfully and hummed. “Pretty sure their dad ate them first.”

 

“All but Zeus,” Tim confirmed. “Then the War happened.”

 

“Yeah.  War. Lame.” Shaking his head despondently, Bart split into a grin when he noticed Jaime’s look of irritation.

 

“I think I liked you better when you were illiterate, hermano.”

 

“Yeah, but this way I don’t have to carry my text books around.” Bart snickered again, elbowing his boyfriend in the arm. Tim was good as new after a month of recovery. Which was a surprise—given how hard Robin pushed himself on the battlefield. Then again, Robins were Bats. And according to Jaime, Bats were just freaky that way.

 

“ _Bart._ ” Wally called him over after his conversation with the senior teammates was done. “You ready?”

 

“What? Oh—yeah.” Pulling out of his own musings with his friends, Bart hopped over to the center of the room to meet his cousin. He relished in the words of ‘ _good luck_ ’ from Jaime and the rest of them and grinned as his cousin and he stood parallel to each other, across from a line of fifteen paint cans and heavy-duty sheets of tarp that piled up to Bart’s knee. They matched smirks.

 

“I have something for you.”

 

Bart blinked. “Really?”

 

“Yeah.” Then, Wally dug into the pockets of his shorts before resting the item in the palms of the younger speedster’s hands.

 

Smooth red goggles, thick and firm at the grip, with an intricate carving woven around the edges. Bart recognized them instantly—then looked back to the redhead, eyes three times their normal size. “Your goggles?”

 

“Kid Flash’s goggles,” Wally corrected. The corner of his lip turned upward, one eyebrow raised carefully in the air with the amusement teeming in his demeanor. “So, essentially— _your_ goggles. Earned them—even if you still manage to piss me off on a daily basis. You’ve done good, kid.”

 

“You mean ‘ _Well_.’”

 

“Yeah. Like _that._ ” Regardless, the elder speedster snatched it out of his cousin’s hands and placed them over Bart’s head. They fit perfectly. “Think of it as an early graduation present. Or—something.”

 

“Coming from you? I’m flattered.” Bart snorted, looking up as though he could see them at the crown of his head. He made a promise to wear him with the uniform as soon as the race was over. Once they were adjusted properly, the brunet flung his arms around Wally’s torso and hugged him tightly. “Thanks.”

 

“Yeah, yeah.” Wally’s chest rumbled as he laughed softly and patted him on the back. “Now— _get off._ ”

 

Shortly after they were all sorted out, Bart and Wally returned to their current positions. Both speedsters reached for a new paint roller at the end of the line of paint cans and tarp paper, with Wally’s engagement ring gleaming beautifully with the added sunlight. Dick approached them, the amusement apparent on his face. Bart couldn’t blame him—his body was humming with excitement, ready to take off.

 

“There are nine floors in total to the tower including the Main-Ops center,” their leader explained. “Lay the tarp out, duct tape the needed edges. Bart takes the odd-numbered floors, Wally takes the even-numbered ones. The ninth floor, Wally takes the right half of the room and Bart takes the left. Whoever finishes first is the winner.”

 

“And gets first dibs on Miss M’s cookies—”

 

“—right?”

 

Bart and Wally sported the same grin as M’gann laughed.

 

“Right.” The corner of his lip turning into a smile, Dick inspected both of them. “Ready? Set. _Go._ ”

 

_WOOOOOSH_

 

Bart grabbed the first pile of tarp and slung it over his shoulder, clutched a paint can, looped two rolls of duct tape over his hand like a bracelet, and even swept Tim in a super-duper mind-blowing kiss before he descended downstairs to the first floor. He spread out the tarp across the ground, smoothing out the creases as hurriedly as possible, then lined all the windows with tape. He dug for his paint roller, vibrated it into the paint can, then doused the walls with the approved (boring) shade of blue.

 

He ran in streaks across the room, up and down, leapt, and made sure every bit of the room was covered. Once Bart was sure, he dashed up the stairs—quickly looked to the progress Wally had made to the second floor—

 

“Heynocheating!”

 

“All’sfairinpaintandwar!”

 

—and moved on to paint their gym.

 

The race carried on, with both Bart and Wally stagnantly appearing to the ninth floor where their refill on paint and tarp were. Once the first eight floors were paint and finished, the pair were neck-and-neck at the top floor where everyone waited for him. They smashed noses reaching for the last folded piece of tarp ( _SMASH. “OW!”)_ and spread it out so fast that half their team members yelped and instinctively went airborne.

 

“Ten seconds,” Nightwing called out from below.

 

The younger speedster immediately finished up his current job painting part of the wall adjacent to one window and carried onto the next. He didn’t bother checking to see how far his cousin had gotten.

 

“Five seconds.”

 

Almost— _done_ —Bart plunged the paint roller, hand and all, into the paint canister.

 

“Four…three…two…one. _Time_.”

 

“YES!” Wally won.

 

“Dammit!” Exactly one inch of the wall went unpainted before Dick had stopped them. Bart rubbed his paint roller over the said spot and fell to the floor with a groan. He wiped the sweat off his brow and pouted, while Wally threw his fists in the air and proceeded toward Miss Martian for a freshly baked batch of cookies.

 

Those around laughed as he threw his arms around her, gave a gentlemanly kiss to her cheek, and rammed four cookies in his mouth.

 

Sighing loudly, Bart crossed his arms and fell to the ground in defeat. He wanted cookies _too._

 

“Good work.” At least he still had Tim.

 

Green eyes looked to his boyfriend—who immediately held out one of his copyrighted bat-hankies in the speedster’s face. A smirk quirked across the teen’s face, which was when Bart realized he was covered head-to-toe in splotches of blue paint.

 

Wally, too—but his cousin seemed more occupied with eating. When the redhead reached out to kiss his fiancé, however, Nightwing bluntly shoved the speedster’s face aside.

 

“Huh. Uh—thanks.” Standing to his feet, Bart quickly rubbed himself off. Super absorpant—just the way he liked it.

 

“Wow, man,” La’gaan remarked. He pointed to the ceiling where the younger speedster had been designated to paint. “You even managed to get the ear on the neck.”

 

That stopped the senior members from their curious conversation. They looked up into the direction the Atlantean pointed to.

 

Still upset and licking his wounds, Bart refused to look up too. That is—until Tim reached over and placed a simple kiss behind his ear. Once that happened, he felt his cheeks tingle and looked back up. Tim kisses were the cure to everything. “You think so?”

 

“And the hunchback,” Gar agreed. He rubbed his chin in approval. “I’d call it a masterpiece.”

 

“What the hell,” was Wally’s only response. He stopped halfway from eating the cookie in his hand, eyebrow twitching.

 

On the ceiling was a strategically crafted Mr. Crocker, spazzing as he would on the Fairly OddParents and holding a paper graded ‘F’ in one hand. Bart tried to hide his grin—but couldn’t, given the look on his cousin’s face. Sure—being outrun by Wally ( _some of the times_ ) was a major moder, but seeing that affectionate, ‘I’m-going-to-slap-you-and-your-Kid-Idiocy’ look made things a lot better. Like—a lot better.

 

Wally gave him the, _I’m-going-to-slap-you-and-your-Kid-Idiocy_ look. “When did you find time to paint that?”

 

“When I found the ladder.” Bart smiled back innocently.

 

Dick cut them both off before the ninth floor turned into a speedster death match. He held a grin akin to his brother’s—one that looked positively smug—and addressed the room. “While we wait for the paint to dry, suit up. We’ve got a mission tonight.”

 

Ten minutes later the team reappeared in the Main-Ops room. Bart entertained himself by stealing kisses every time Tim tried to set the goggles over his face. A giggle tumbled out of his lips—just as Tim snorted, from getting his nose nipped at.

 

Bart held the new goggles in place. “Do they look good?”

 

“They look great.” Then, Robin bent over and kissed him on the lips.

 

The briefing started when everyone reappeared in the room, all standing awkwardly on the tarp. Personally, staring at paint while it dried had to be one of Bart’s more favorite activities. He’d mentioned it to Tim once—and somehow that resulted with a massive paintball fight around the Wayne Manor—big brother and older cousin included.

 

Blue holograms surrounded Nightwing as he began the explanation. He seemed hesitant—and immediately, the teens recognized the dark blue man on the screen. Beneath his profile was the name _JERICHO._

For a moment, Bart broke away from paying attention (it didn’t happen often anymore—honest) to relish the pout on Flash’s lips. He thought back to the entertained look Nightwing had sported only minutes earlier and couldn’t help a grin. “You think I’m in trouble?”

 

“Don’t think so.” Robin leaned in, stature even and arms crossed firmly. “He’s in a good mood.”

 

“If you say so.” Kid flash nudged his boyfriend in the arm. “Ready to operate the mission, fearless leader?”

 

“Yeah.” They were _so_ going to get in trouble. The brunet caught the faintest hint of a smile on his boyfriend’s face—and was nudged back. “So long as we’re together.”

 

“Crash.”

 

They listened to the rest of the briefing without interruption, and awaited further orders.

 

**xxx**

**The End**

**Author's Note:**

> A picture of the new Kid Flash and Flash!: <http://kingburu.tumblr.com/post/45165277281/im-going-to-be-strict-with-you-gonna-yell-every>


End file.
